


abscond

by justanotherblond



Series: timshel [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Civil War Fix-It, Family Drama, Flashbacks, Gen, Hydra (Marvel), Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Sexual Harassment, M/M, Minor Violence, Ned Leeds is a Good Bro, Parent Bucky Barnes, Parent Steve Rogers, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Protective Bucky Barnes, Protective Steve Rogers, Secret Identity, Service Dogs, Sokovia Accords, Swearing, Teenage Rebellion, Therapy, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Vigilantism, not to any main characters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-11
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2020-02-29 18:54:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 39,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18784150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justanotherblond/pseuds/justanotherblond
Summary: “Peter,” Papa seethed slowly, lifting a finger towards the video, “what is this?”Peter rubbed the back of his neck and meekly answered, “Your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man?”***Peter was a normal teenager. Sure, he was raised by an evil Russian agency and the Winter soldier with more kills to his name than Jack Kevorkian, but that was all in his past. He and Papa were healed; Papa works a normal 9 to 5 at the car shop and Peter's at the top of his class and already on four different universities’ radars.Except maybe most normal teenagers weren’t part-time vigilantes. When teenagers only get three hours of sleep, it’s because they’re cramming for a test and not because they put themselves between a gun and another body. And maybe they don’t get tricked into fighting their fathers for blowing up the UN.Hell, who was Peter trying to kid? He hasn’t been normal since he starting climbing walls.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _abscond_ : (v) to leave hurriedly and secretly, typically to avoid detection
> 
>  
> 
> i made a rebloggable post [here](https://blondieewritess.tumblr.com/post/184793179864/abscond-by-justanotherblond-peter-papa-seethed)

New York. 

A city that did not raise but may bury him. 

Peter didn’t mind. He preferred the concrete from this jungle than any from the compound.

***

At night, he took to the streets. 

*** 

Spider-Man sat on a ledge with his feet dangling over the buzzing city below, meticulously watching the streets for any signs of criminal activity. 

It was a Tuesday. Late Tuesday. Late enough that it was now early and early enough that not even the rooms of the college dorm building nearby had their lights on.

He did this whenever he could, repaid this debt he owed for the damage he’d done on another land a long time ago. Gradually, it started to flood his days, eat away at his time and tear holes in his smile. He patrolled the streets in the early mornings before school and the hours after until he’d come back home to say a quick hello to his parents, snag a bite to eat, and maybe start his homework if given the time. 

He’d be back on the street by eleven after his parents tucked in and nighttime swallowed the city sky. The lights from the countless skyscrapers kept it bright enough to roam. When he was lucky, he’d be back in bed by three. 

Spider-Man never prided himself on his good fortune. 

Most nights, he’d roam the streets just as the sun sank behind the lowest building and walk until it peaked back up on the other side of the city. 

He usually pondered, as he sat clad in a blue and red sweatshirt, blue sweats, red socks, converse, and a ski mask pulled over his face, why no one called the cops on him yet.

Considering it was always late nights or dusky mornings in the odd terrain that was New York City, he wasn’t shocked. Fifteen-year-old kids got up to weirder and no one really wanted to stick their nose in anyone else’s business, especially not in the business of some kid in pajamas sitting on top of a ten-story building.

But that was kind of Spider-Man’s whole point. He stuck his nose everywhere it didn’t belong, even if it was in front of a 9mm handgun grasped in the shaky, sweaty palm of some wide-eyed thug. Occasionally, he’d help an old lady across the street or push aside a pickpocket about to strike. Though most nights...Most nights…

New York was scary. Spider-Man didn’t quite understand the city he’d grown to call home. 

There were no pick-pockets or predators tonight. Only a bright, suspicious flash that burst through the bank three streets over. Spider-Man perked up, hopping to his feet to get a better look. When the light flashed once more, he tipped off the ledge and shot a web to swing efficiently from building to building, landing without a sound in front of the glass doors and casually let himself in.

Four men grabbed money out of a ripped open ATM and stuffed it into briefcases. Ironically, they were clad in Avenger’s masks that were sold at either Party City or Walmart. Spider-Man had seen them somewhere with his dad, and the two of them spent way too long laughing about it while his step-dad turned red and sputtered that it was disrespectful.

Spider-Man’s heart hammered in his chest like a sharp rock as he leaned against the wall and cleared his throat, “Hey, you guys forget your pins or something?” 

The four Avengers twisted towards him in sync.

“Oh, hey Steve! I didn’t know you and your work buddies were gonna be here!” Spider-Man exclaimed jokingly.

Their shoulders tensed as they each rose to their feet. 

Thor charged first and Spider-Man quickly punched his thin-plastic-covered nose before jumping up and pressing his sticky palms against the ceiling.

“Thor,” He greeted when Thor stumbled to the ground, then kicked an oncoming Hulk in the face, “Hulk, nice to meet you guys. Steve’s told me a lot about you.”

“Who is this? Why’s he talking ‘bout Captain America like they’re friends?” Iron Man exasperated while continuing to stuff money into the briefcase.

“A new avenger?” Hulk grunted while he cupped his bleeding nose. 

“Nah, he’s too small. Sounds like a kid,” Captain America stated. 

Maybe that was Spider-Man’s cue to stop yammering before he really got caught.

He pushed off the ceiling to kick Iron Man in the throat.

Iron Man righted himself quickly, turning to throw messy punches in Spider-Man’s direction but he dodged them as easily as drinking water.

He spun around to roundhouse kick a burling Thor and then turned to deck Hulk but was stopped when the world turned to mush, and Captain America held some kinda gun that made the world feel like syrup.

Spider-Man rushed out as soon as he could, making an anonymous call to the cops during his sprint back home.

He didn’t think about the blinking security camera that caught every moment he was in the bank. He didn’t think about how it would be blasted across tomorrow night’s news. He forgot about his father’s past warnings of blinking boxes above doors and their ability to see all.

His only thoughts while scaling the brick wall of his apartment building beside the hazardous fire escape were about how great a good night’s sleep sounded and the midterm he had the next morning.

***

Peter had a dream where he put a bullet between his teeth, but that was a long, long time ago. Now his nightmares came few and far between. 

He felt bad on those nights when he’d wake Papa up in the pitch-black hours of the early morning when only drunkards and unpaid interns wandered the streets below.

Peter’s screams were raspy but high like a child. Papa always managed to muffle his own. Peter told himself that one day he would learn to do the same.

Papa would shake Peter’s arm until he awoke, and Peter would look up with eyes so red, wet and burnt. Peter always forgot what the dream was about. Papa would smooth his sweaty hair and say it was alright, then take him to the kitchen where Steve was already making milk with cinnamon on the stovetop.

But other than the rare plagued sleep and once a week therapy session, he was a normal teenager. He didn’t sleep enough because he was up watching YouTube on his phone or studying for an exam he completely forgot about. He spent his Fridays playing video games or watching movies with his best friend. He’d piss off his dad for coming home late and forgetting to do the dishes.

He had a crush on the same girl for three years (his dad once made a passing comment about it being okay if Peter was into anyone else, to which Peter sputtered and changed the conversation). He liked loud music and eating junk food and practicing dangerous stunts in the park while Ned laughed and filmed them on his smartphone. He never cleaned his room and often forgot to do his laundry, letting clothes and old class projects mingle across the floor.

But there were still days where getting out of bed was too hard and he took boiling showers, enough to burn his skin, to get his mind to shut up. His dad would complain about him using up the hot water while Peter rubbed aloe on his arms. 

Papa knew it was a bad day when Peter hid in his bedroom. Papa knew it was a dark day when Peter would fold his arms and tuck his face beneath and cry until his throat felt like it was sliced with glass.

Dr. Kafka suggested finding another coping mechanism since the cranes seemed to work so well. Maybe it had been too long. Maybe he had too much on his plate. Maybe, just maybe, this was something that couldn’t be cured.

He couldn’t bother his papa or Steve with nonsense like this now. There were things they were dealing with. Big, country shaking things like the Avengers being at odds over something that might literally tear the team to shreds and take Papa down with it. Not that Peter understood what it was for it was always whispered about in the dark hours of the night or communicated through papers tucked where Peter couldn’t find them and unreadable expressions. 

And he was fine now anyway. Recently, the gaps between those days became wider. He’d go months between bad days, and even longer between the dark.

They would always be there. He’d never fully heal. There was too much trauma embedded. Peter’s heart was too soft, easily malleable. He would carry these memories for the rest of his life.

But perhaps he did find the perfect coping mechanisms. Maybe he found a way to shut the dark days out for good.

***

Ned and Peter laid on their backs in the grass, heads side by side. Peter’s hands rested on his stomach while Ned’s were at his sides. They stared up at the off-grey, smog polluted city sky. Even so, Central Park wasn’t gloomy.

Kukla, his Great Pyrenees Mountain dog who was taller than Peter when she rested her big paws on his shoulders, laid her fluffy white head on his stomach. Her bright red vest warded kids off from petting her, but Ned could scratch behind her ears. 

“Do you think that was one?” Ned asked, watching the white trail an airplane left in the sky.

“Nah,” Peter answered, scrunching his nose and tilting his head to the side, contemplating, “UFOs wouldn’t be going towards JFK. I’m pretty sure that was just a Boeing.” 

“Not an Airbus?” 

“I don’t think so. There’s a difference in the wings, remember? Boeing has a moveable and a fixed leading edge. See?” Peter pointed towards the far, far plane that Ned couldn’t even see anymore.

Ned twisted towards Peter, lifting his head and an eyebrow to say, “Why did you quit robotics again?”

Peter bit the inside of his cheek and shrugged, “I didn’t have time for it.”

***

On a Wednesday a couple of months back, Peter stumbled through the apartment door with achy bones and a bruise on his stomach. He dumped his bag beside the shoe rack before toeing his off and kicking them into a cubby. 

Papa sat at the table, a smudge of car grease on his cheek and his fingertips stained with some kind of car oil. He raised an eyebrow over a report Steve gave him that morning and asked, “Isn’t practice still on for another four hours?” 

Peter shuffled into the kitchen to grab a cold Gatorade from the fridge and gulped it down while he shrugged. When it was finished, he answered, “I quit. Dr. Kafka said it would be good for me.” 

Papa’s other brow rose to match his first and his eyes widened with the given space above his eyelids, “Did she now? And your other clubs, you quit those, too?” 

Peter tilted his head a bit and scrunched his nose, thinking about the best way to respond, “I mean, not _everything._ I’m still in decathlon.” 

Papa still looked incredulous. Peter started to feel a little guilty until Papa finally sighed and grumbled something about not understanding teenagers at all. 

***

“When I said to lighten your load, I didn’t mean drop everything,” Dr. Kafka laughed a bit humorlessly because there wasn’t really anything funny about the concerning signs of a traumatized teenager.

Peter smiled the cheeky grin that he gave when he wanted to get out of trouble. His father did the same when he skipped and skirted around questions so quick Dr. Kafka swore she was on a tilt-a-whirl.

“I didn’t quit everything. Even if I did, I’m doing better, aren’t I?” Peter asked, eyes light and hopeful and a grin stretched as far as it could like he was praying it would work her over and maybe she’d just shut up about her concerns already.

She bit her lip to stop herself from exhaling too hard. She pushed her glasses up her nose and shrugged.

“If you think you are, then maybe we should discuss your alternative mechanisms.”

Peter’s smiled dropped. His face paled like a sidewalk just covered by fresh snow. He then asked to cut their session early because he just had so much homework and they only had eight minutes left anyway, so it’s not like it’s a big deal, right?

Dr. Kafka nodded with a sour smile and clicked her recorder off as he shrugged on his backpack and rushed out of the room.

Oh, these were warning signs indeed.

***

“Hey, aren’t you on the honor roll?” Ned asked around the buzz of shoving students rushing to get to class early. 

“Yeah?” Peter responded, shrugging his backpack up higher and pressing a dripping pack of ice he got from the nurse’s office against his eye. He got in the middle of a man smacking his girlfriend around behind a corner store about four minutes ago. He managed to shove the guy away and make sure the girl got inside the store so she could call a friend, but not before the guy got one good lick in. 

Peter barely had enough time to change out of his Spider-Man wear and into his jeans and pi pun t-shirt before running to school, stopping by a stunned and weathered Ms. Reeve for some ice and making it to his locker before the first bell. 

He and Ned had been on their way to first period before Ned stopped abruptly in front of the bulletin board hanging outside Principal Morita’s office. Tacked to it were flyers for the upcoming play, notices for the can food drive, the semester schedule, and the honor roll list. 

The honor roll list that no longer featured Peter’s name. 

“I’m sorry Peter,” Ned consoled, looking more upset than Peter did, “maybe it’s a mistake?” 

Peter’s hand holding the ice to his face fell limply to his side. The throbbing in his cheek had already stopped and the bruise nearly faded away. He felt stunned for a moment before a carefree wave washed over him. 

There was a time where this would sting his chest for weeks, keeping him up at night until he paced his room wondering what he did wrong. What assignment had he forgotten to turn in? What test didn’t he take? 

But it was almost like two years back when he missed a school field trip to the Central Park Zoo because Mr. Stark asked him to accompany Stark Industries on a very important press conference. 

At first, he was torn up by it. He’d been looking forward to the field trip. He and Ned had bought disposable cameras and already mapped the most efficient route to see all their favorite animals before the day was done. When he brought this up to Mr. Stark, fully intending on turning this opportunity down, Mr. Stark just shrugged and said, “Them’s the breaks, kid. Small sacrifices have to be made for a bigger purpose.” 

So now, staring at the slot where his name once sat, he shrugged. 

“It’s fine,” he stated, voice not even catching, and turned on his heel towards class while Ned sputtered and called for him to slow down. 

***

Papa liked Minnie’s dinner because it hadn’t changed much since the ‘40s. Sure, the health codes were stricter and the food was a little different, but it had the same décor and atmosphere. Hell, the staff even wore the same uniforms.

He said that the first time he walked in there with Steve before Peter moved into their apartment, he nearly fell to the floor. Memories were flooding like a broken faucet and filled his mind up and up and up until he just couldn’t take it. They had to get their food to go.

Now, Papa ate there no problem. Sure, he wore a baseball cap pulled a little too far down his face and kept his head low, but he’d smiled sweetly at the waitress and ordered without a problem. 

He always made himself seem so small when outside, blending into crowds or walls to disappear. He once told Peter it was a habit he couldn’t quite shake, like an itch always under his skin or a sharp hiss in his ear. Stay quiet. Don’t stand out. Finish the mission. Peter grasped his father’s hand on a side too tight to be gentle and told him he understood. 

Papa brought Peter to the diner Fridays before school. Late start Fridays, thank God, began last year at Midtown after a petition ran by the seniors caused a big stir. Now Peter didn’t have to worry about being late every day because he was given an extra hour and a half of wiggle room.

That Friday, Papa flipped through a pamphlet Peter’s school counselor gave him last week before she saw his grades were plummeting. Peter fed Kukla pieces of bacon beneath the table when Papa wasn’t looking.

“But don’t you think Massachusetts is a little far? And who’s gonna pay for it? I sure as hell don’t have Harvard money,” Papa’s voice had a sort of edge that only came when he was worried, “why the hell do they got you started on college stuff already? You have two years left and – Peter, I swear to God, give that one dog one more piece of bacon and I’m gonna lose it.”

Peter popped his head back up eyes wide and lips pressed together, “I wasn’t giving her anything.”

Papa rolled his eyes and passed Peter back the pamphlet, “Fine, but you better not complain if she has gas tonight.”

Papa looked back at his eggs. Peter gave Kukla another strip of bacon.

“Harvard’s only three and a half hours away by car. Seven hours by train.”

Papa grunted, “Seven is a lot. And where do you think we’re gonna get a car?”

Peter shrugged, keeping his eyes on his plate. He twirled a piece of cantaloupe on his fork, “Mr. Stark has a jet we could –”

“You know what Steve and I are gonna say to that. It’s still no.”

Peter huffed, resting his elbow on the table and his hand in his fist that wasn’t holding his fork, “I don’t see why you guys hate him so much. He’s nice to me.”

“It doesn’t concern you. Now quit pouting and eat your fruit before it gets soggy,” Papa scolded, pointing at Peter’s half-empty plate with his fork, “Aren’t you too young to think about college? I know I’m not exactly an expert, but fifteen still seems like a stretch.”

Peter’s lip quirked up in a smile as he popped a grape into his mouth and spoke around it, “Welcome to Midtown.”

Papa shook his head, trying his best to suppress a smile, “You’re disgusting.”

Peter swallowed his grape so he wouldn’t laugh and choke and end up dying in his dad’s favorite restaurant, “You know, I’d probably qualify for the GI bill if yours didn’t expire since you were in the military like a thousand years ago.”

Papa scoffed, a little affronted and joked, “Well if it didn’t, maybe I’ll just keep it for myself.” 

“Then I’ll just use Steve’s,” Peter smirked as cheeky as could be, “No one wants Captain America’s stepson to pay for college.” 

Because just last year, as fall was becoming winter and clouds took to the sky, Steve and Papa got married. It wasn’t anything fancy. Couldn’t be, given their personalities. Just some signed papers at home during a storm while Peter ate cereal at the table. They didn’t take each other’s last names nor did they exchange wedding rings. Instead, they wore each other’s dog tags, dug up from some museum in Germany’s archive. They laughed while they scribbled their names like it was their own private joke. And it was private.

Until Ned Leeds happened.

Sure, Steve came clean, and out, about having a “secret male lover”. He mentioned it in passing at a press conference and the next day, every tabloid, newspaper, channel, and magazine were begging the question; who was this anonymous man?

Peter carried on as normal even though every media outlet blasted either support, critique, or denial about Steve’s sexuality and the validity of this “male partner”.

It’s not like anyone knew it was Peter’s dad because why would they? The original James Barnes was dead and the Winter Soldier now took his place and he had to be locked up in some government facility or high-security prison. Definitely not that nice man working at that auto shop on fourth. Not that guy who sat in the back of every Midtown chess match, robot fight, science fair, and gymnastics meet. Peter’s dad must be someone else, a Russian immigrant who took claim of a common American name. The only people who knew the truth were either on that rescue mission all those years ago or were under six different levels of clearance. 

So the marriage didn’t change anything for Peter until Ned obnoxiously proclaimed to the class while a Captain America tape rolled and Flash flicked pieces of paper at Peter’s ears that read “Penis Parker”, that Peter’s dad was the one Steve married.

Flash rolled his eyes and convinced the entire freshman class to mock Peter about it during all hours of the school day. The teasing came to a screeching halt when Steve Rogers himself came to watch Peter’s spelling bee when his dad was booked with a double shift.

It started back up again sometime in the fall when the long break of summer rebirthed Flash’s confidence.

Peter twisted his fork fill with eggs and said, “Look, the money doesn’t matter right now, anyway. I could get a scholarship for something like - ”

“Like gymnastics?” Papa mumbled sarcastically through a piece of rubbery cantaloupe. 

“Like decathlon,” Peter corrected a little shortly, “And who’s the gross one now?” 

Papa chuckled and swallowed the fruit before continuing, “I still think you got plenty of time before you need to think about all this, but wouldn’t all those clubs you were in before, I don’t know, help this whole college thing? The mathematics club was good. And that tutoring you used to do on the weekends at the Y. And you loved robotics, Petya, I don’t know why you quit that.” 

Peter looked back down at his plate, the skin above his cheekbones flushing very hot like he was leaning too close to a fire. He tapped his fork against his plate so it rang out a little _clink clink clink,_ in time with the seconds ticking through their spill of silence. His other hand reached down to stroke Kukla’s fluffy head. She sat up a bit at the attention and bumped her wet nose against his palm and just that tiny sign of affection made Peter want to cry.

“I don’t have time for all that.” 

“Cut the shit, Peter,” Papa snapped. He folded his arms on the table and leaned forward. There was a time when Pepper admonished the Barnes family’s poor table manners because who puts their elbows on the table? But Peter didn’t eat off a table until he was ten. 

Papa continued, “You wanted to take some stuff off your plate, that’s fine. But everything? And for what? You still look exhausted most of the time and you don’t seem like you’re doing any better.” 

“I’m doing _fine_ , Papa,” Peter hissed, cheeks flushed hotter until his entire face felt like it was licked by flames. 

“No you’re not,” Papa said as sure as he could say the sky was blue and one could kill more with a semi-automatic than a rifle. 

And Peter...Peter couldn’t say anything to that. Because Papa knew. Papa knew Peter so well it almost scared him. The only thing he didn’t know was the alleyways and abandoned balconies Peter spends his nights in before diving headfirst into danger. 

Peter was still stroking between Kukla’s ears when he noticed the pile of white fur coating the diner floor beneath her. He tilted back a hair to inspect the damage further, wrinkling his nose and stating, “Kukla sheds enough to make another dog.” 

Papa ducked his head a bit to look at the mess before sitting up and rolling his eyes, “I’m not bringing her back to Vicky’s. Last time the made her look like a goddamn lion. You remember that? She hired that new girl. Fresh outta pet grooming school. Can you believe that, Petya? A school to learn how to wash a dog.” 

Peter laughed, “Maybe that’s where I should go.” 

“That’s actually not a bad idea. There’s gotta be one of those in Queens.” 

_Who knows_ , sits at the top of Peters tongue, _maybe he won’t even go to college._

He wouldn’t mind that much at all. 

Suddenly, a sharp buzz from Papa’s phone broke the quiet between them. They both dropped their forks, which landed with loud clanks, at the noise. Kukla sat up and poked her head out from the table, surveying the situation. Papa absentmindedly patted her head while digging his phone out of his pocket to signal that her help wasn’t needed, but his hand was stiff and rigid. She kept her eye on him just in case. 

Papa got his phone out and his eyes narrowed as they scanned the message. He brought it closer to his face, the line between his eyebrows deepened and the corners of his lips turned downwards.

“Shit,” He hissed, lips pressed together until they turned white.

“What’s wrong?” Peter asked, pressing his torso into the sharp table to lean over and get a closer look. 

“Nothing,” Papa said, still looking at his phone. He put a hand on Peter’s shoulder to nudge him back to his side of the booth. He quirked his chin towards Peter’s plate without looking up, “Finish your breakfast. I gotta call Steve.”

Peter raised an eyebrow. Papa and Steve despised phone calls unless there was an emergency. 

“Nothing’s wrong?” Peter asked incredulously. 

“Mmhm,” Papa hummed dismissively, already dialing Steve’s number but was declined by the second ring, “Shit. Can’t take one fucking second to answer your phone?” He muttered and began frantically redialing. 

Peter could hear a click on the other line and before Steve could say anything, Papa barrelled in with a hiss, “What do you mean the fuck do you mean one hundred seventeen countries approved it?” 

Steve started rushing his explanation. Peter craned his ear a little, hearing pieces like _Laos_ and _Secretary Ross_ and _Tony’s saying that_. If Steve just slowed down a little, Peter would be able to know exactly what he was saying. What good were his fine-tuned ears if he couldn’t understand the words that were being said? 

But like Papa could read him, which he always could, he put a hand over the speaker and gave Peter a stern look. 

This wasn’t a conversation for Peter’s ears. Yeah, he got it. He’d heard it a thousand times. He’d just like to have an idea of the situation. 

“Shouldn’t you be heading out?” Papa whispered around Steve’s muffled rambling on the other line. 

Peter’s eyes widened as he went to check his watch. 

“Shit,” he hissed and pushed himself out of the booth, throwing on his backpack and bidding his father a farewell as he sprinted off to school, all thought of Laos and Accords pushed to the back of his mind. 

***

Dusk brushed over Central Park. Steve and Peter brought Kukla there for a game of fetch, a Sunday night tradition after dinner with May and while Papa attended his session with Dr. Kafka. 

Steve usually used this opportunity to talk to Peter one-on-one since they were both crammed with responsibilities during the weekdays. Tonight though, tonight Steve stood far away with a tense back, talking sternly into his phone and breaking the strict _don’t bring work home_ rule Papa put in place maybe a year and a half back. He threw Kukla’s tennis ball far into the distance, but she happily yelped and bounded after it. 

Peter’s feelings weren’t hurt. His attention was caught elsewhere. 

An alleyway thirty feet out held a pack of men in their twenties, chatting about the wasted girls bound to spill out of the bar nearby. 

Kukla barked in the distance. 

Peter’s heart cramped. 

His ears were too well-tuned, a byproduct of the serum. Sometimes when he was so caught in his head, he couldn’t hear anyone at all. Words would flow by him like a tranquil current of a creek. But most times, most days, he could hear anything. It wasn’t so bad. He learned how to tune out things that weren’t important, words that weren’t directed towards him or car horns and slamming doors that didn’t call for his attention. 

He couldn’t even bring himself to listen to Steve’s conversation, but he could hear every last word that pack uttered. 

“We should wait until one’s by herself - ”

“The one with that skirt? You could practically see her - ”

“You know. I heard Sherman’s got some roofies at his place. If one of us goes inside, then - ” 

“Nah, let’s get a whole herd of them. Enough to go around and then some - ”

“Wait, shit, look at that group. Freshman, you think? Probably easier if we- ”

Peter was going to throw up. His stomach rang like a dirty dish towel, twisted tighter and tighter until every drop was drained. His face felt flushed but under the skin felt cold. He couldn’t feel his fingers. His breathing was going out. 

He had to stop them. All he had to do was swing over, which would take two seconds, and knock them all unconscious. Maybe even leave them to - 

Well, Steve was right there, wasn’t he? How the hell could he pull that one off? 

But if he didn’t, then some girl was gonna...she was gonna...and all because Peter couldn’t work the nerve to sneak past his distracted step-dad to make sure she’d be fine? 

He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t help her. He had to, or else she was gonna - 

“Hey Pete, you okay?” 

Peter’s head snapped away from the alleyway and towards Steve standing in front of him. His phone was in his pocket and arms crossed on his chest. His brow was furrowed with concern. Kukla sat beside him, tennis ball by her feet, head tilted and ears pointed upward. 

“Peter?” 

Peter’s eyes were wild and his face was green. His shoulders were pulled back like he was ready to bolt. He blinked like an owl and shook his head. 

“The alleyway…” He turned back towards it. 

Papa told him endless stories of his and Steve’s youth. Steve was known for going in and helping the helpless, even when he wasn’t much of a hero himself. He’d understand why Peter needed to stop them. Hell, he’d probably do it himself. 

“The alleyway?” Steve pressed. 

Peter nodded. His tongue felt heavy. The numb feeling had worked its way to his toes. 

“They’re talking about a girl.” 

Steve raised an eyebrow, stepping forward to get a better look. He craned his neck to see the group chatting away, huddled together and moving their hands in a way that showed they were plotting something complex. 

He took a step back and touched Peter’s shoulder, using his other hand to grab his phone back out from his pocket, “Let’s head back, huh? Your dad should be home soon.” 

Not even a block into their journey, Steve called the police to inform them that Captain America was reporting a group of suspicious characters on the corner of 12th and Main. 

***

It was a Monday when the fresh-faced, not even tenured AP history teacher, Mr. Petit gave Peter detention.

“You know Mr. Parker, I’m sure your mother raised you better than this,” he scolded and tore a detention slip from the pink pad of paper. He held it out, still grasping tightly when Peter went to snatch it away, “I trust that you won’t fall asleep in my class again.”

Peter bit his cheek until it bled so he wouldn’t say that his mother died before she could raise him and if Mr. Petit took ten minutes out of his day to read Peter’s IEP he might know that. Not that it said much, but it was enough to state that Peter’s childhood was dark and murky so he might miss a lot of school for therapeutic reasons and, even with his quick brain, he’d need a little bit of accommodation. Instead, he stayed quiet with his teeth latched onto the inside of his cheek, so his face looked a bit sour as he pulled the slip away and shoved it into his backpack.

Mr. Petit’s eyes narrowed, “And you better watch that attitude. I know I’m new here but that doesn’t mean I don’t deserve some respect.”

Peter smoothed his features, used to putting on a mask no matter the cause, and apologized before shuffling out of the room.

Detention was always held in the dullest classroom at the back of the school. There were no posters, no windows, white plaster walls and chipped desks with gums tacked across the bottom. Peter tried to rest his head on top of his backpack he laid across the desk, but Coach Wilson snapped that it wasn’t nap time. The hall monitor and arch-nemesis Flash Thompson sat cockily from his post at Wilson’s desk.

Coach Wilson blew his whistle, much like he would in P.E. but the tight quarters made it reverberate so violently off the walls that the six students present covered their ears. When he knew he had everyone’s attention, he dropped the whistle from between his teeth and put his hands on his hips, “I don’t want any talking or texting or homeworking. My buddy Finn –”

“– Flash.”

“Will be in charge,” he paused, picking up his clipboard from his desk and reading off the rest of his speech from a paper attached to it in an almost robotic sarcastic tone, “You’re all gonna watch a video to help you reflect on what you did wrong and how you could have prevented this situation. Your hall monitor, Mr. Thomas –

“– Thompson”

“Will stop it at the appropriate time. Afterward, you will be asked to write a one-page, handwritten response on what you learned. Turn it in at the front desk before detention is over or you will receive another one for tomorrow,” he dropped the clipboard back onto his desk and now the clattering of wood on wood stung everyone’s ears, “I’m going to watch the game in the teacher's’ lounge. Flint’s in charge.”

Coach Wilson flicked on the box T.V. on a roll in cart and pressed play. He then left while Flash huffed and crossed his arms, angrily muttering, “It’s _Flash_.”

Peter rolled his eyes just as his phone buzzed in his pocket. He fished it out and read the only message glowing harshly on the home screen.

_From: Papa_

_where are you_

“You didn’t tell your dad you got detention?” A voice droned behind him, causing Peter to flinch towards the girl leaning over his shoulder. She lifted an eyebrow above her copy of _Exploring Human Bondage_.

“Michelle,” Peter hissed, tucking his phone against his chest, “don’t read my texts.”

Her eyebrow rose higher, “Why not?”

Michelle leeched onto Peter and Ned’s duo sometime last year. Peter couldn’t explain it except that one day he perked up and realized he saw this girl _a lot_.

She was in almost all the same clubs. She sat in the desks behind them. She stayed at the far end of their table at lunch. She’d walk behind them in the hallways.

Peter wasn’t quite sure if he considered her a friend. She never really talked and when she did it was clipped and almost mean. She knew a lot more about Peter than he knew about her, and sometimes that made him queasy.

She read a lot of books, too. That’s where Peter had first spotted her, in the library sitting at his table reading a book on the extinction of exotic animals while he read _Anna Karenina_. She asked him two weeks later if he could teach her how to read in Cyrillic but immediately shook her head too quick, scoffed and brushed it off as a joke.

Peter ignored her and turned back around, shoving his phone back into his pocket. Papa could wait. It’s not like Peter was in danger.

There was a staticky pop from the box television before the video started playing. Steve Rogers decked fully out in his original, and impractical, Captain America costume walked onto the screen. Steve complained endlessly about the use of screenshotted pictures from his poorly made war movies in Peter’s out-of-date textbooks.

Peter sunk down in his seat before the words so ingrained in his brain could ring through the room. This video was made before Peter and Steve even met, yet it always felt like Steve was scolding Peter directly. He could see that disappointed crease between Steve’s brows and the slight, but firm, tone used when he called Peter to the living room for a “discussion”. Unlike Papa, who would warn Peter of the consequences if he did something again, Steve would express just how hurt he was by a certain action or how worried they’d been when Peter wouldn’t answer his phone.

“So,” Steve said, lifting an eyebrow, “you got detention.”

Flash laughed, his feet kicked up on the desk and arms tucked behind his head, “Hey Peter, isn’t that the guy who’s screwing your dad?”

Peter’s head made a dull thunk as he dropped it onto the desk, nearly blocking out the sound of his dramatic groan.

***

This was a Tuesday. Liz read out questions while three groups of two rang a bell to answer them.

The calls of wrong answers, palms slapping the tables in frustration, jeers, and rebuttals muffled like they were underwater while Peter reasoned with Mr. Harrington.

“Peter, you were cleared to go on these trips two years ago. What do you mean you can’t go?” Mr. Harrington questioned while twisting on the crooked glasses frame above the bridge of his nose.

“I’m really sorry, but I can’t go to Washington because there’s just been a lot of stuff at home and Mr. Stark relies on me for help and I can’t just bail on him,” Peter explained, praying that Mr. Harrington wouldn’t call either Mr. Stark or his dad to ensure that was the truth.

It wasn’t a lie. Peter couldn’t do that to anyone with a good conscience. The truth was just twisted around a little. 

Steve and Papa bickered like an old married couple but worked like a well-oiled machine. And in any machine, if one part is faulty then the whole thing goes down.

Steve constantly came home from work upset about Mr. Stark and the document he was being coerced into signing. And since Steve was a tensed-up ball of repressed anger, Papa was too. Steve nearly cried when their toaster was acting up and Papa screamed at the T.V. for ten minutes when the Dodgers lost the World Series.

Before Mr. Stark and Steve’s dispute, Peter had been helping Mr. Stark a lot with the basic construction of models and double-checking his equations before they got sent out. Mr. Stark had a lot on his plate right now, as did the rest of the Avengers, and didn’t have time to focus on little things, so Peter, much to Steve’s displeasure, filled in the gaps.

That was until Steve came home one night a month back in a flurry that made his cheeks pink and proclaimed that Peter couldn’t work for Tony anymore.

Peter tried to argue, even turned to his dad for support but of course, whatever Steve said Papa agreed ten-fold.

_“It would do you some good to take some stuff off your schedule anyway, Petya.”_

Except that he already took almost everything off his schedule.  
So, Peter wasn’t lying. There were problems at home and there was a chance Mr. Stark would want Peter’s help the weekend of National’s, but that wasn’t why Peter couldn’t go. He just couldn’t bring himself to leave the city alone for that long. 

“But Peter, it’s Nationals. And it’s two months out. Are you sure you can’t get that one weekend off?” Mr. Harrington practically pleaded.

“I would, but Mr. Stark needs my help that weekend.”

“Oh, sure,” Flash scoffed, butting into their conversation from across the room. His arms were crossed over his chest and his eye roll was so dramatic that Peter could see it from where he was seated, “Like Tony Stark couldn’t find _anyone_ else smarter than you to help them. The only reason you get to work with him is that your dad and Captain America are apparently a thing.”

His voice was just a hair too loud, enough to catch the attention of the rest of the members of the team. They all stopped their jovial practice session and gaped.

“What are you talking about?” Cindy asked voice rushed in a panic.

“Peter’s not going to Washington,” Sally responded from where she was lying on the floor beside the stage.

Cindy frantically shook her head. Everyone else looked confused and maybe betrayed. He was the most consistent member of the team, the one everyone relied on for a hard question or a tense round, and he was bailing on them.

Peter picked at the table, lacking the heart to look at any of them. He didn’t want to let anyone down, but he couldn’t be out of the city for a whole weekend. What if something went wrong and he wasn’t there? What if someone dropped a bomb on the city when Peter couldn’t catch it?

New York needed Spider-Man almost as much as Peter did.

“Really?” Liz asked and even _she_ sounded disappointed, “Right before Nationals?”

“He already quit gymnastics, chess, and robotics club,” Michelle piped up from where she read seemingly disconnected from the rest of the conversation, but when everyone twisted towards her, she quickly explained herself, “I’m not obsessed with him. Just very observant.”

“Well, I guess that means you don’t have time to go to Liz’s party,” Flash sighed, shaking his head in mock disappointed, “I mean, not like you were invited but…”

“He’s invited!” Liz scrambled to say. Peter’s head jolted towards her as she turned towards him, “There are just some people coming over to my place next Friday and you’re more than welcome to come.”

“You’re having a party?” Peter squeaked before rapidly clearly his throat.

Liz nodded and twisted a piece of hair as she shrugged, “That’s okay if you can’t come. I know you’re way too busy anyway.”

“I, uh, I,” Peter stammered, eyes darting to Ned who nodded frantically, “I can go.”

A smile bloomed on Liz’s face and Peter swallowed thick nerves down his throat as his cheeks felt sunburnt.

“Alright,” Mr. Harrington clapped, awkwardly garnering the attention of the group, “Now that that, um, interaction is done with, let’s start with space theory and move on from there.”

**

Peter found a way to silence his bad days. He wasn’t going to feel bad about it, and he wasn’t going to stop. Not when all he’s done is good. Not when putting a stop to the evil that seeped through the streets numbed the buzz in his brain that screamed memories of bloody politicians and begging mothers.

He slipped through his window into his room a little out of breath from his sprint home from the bank. He held it open as he crawled inside, sticking his fingers to the ceiling and silently slid the window closed with his foot. He caught himself before the task was complete, muffled voices startling him to a halt. 

Where he’d usually hear snores or silence when he returned, instead there was what sounded like an argument between Papa and Steve rattling from the living room.

Peter slowly crept across the ceiling until he reached his door, leaning down but not detaching himself to press his ear against the door.

“They can’t just sign it without you. That goes against the whole ‘you’re the one in charge’ bullshit they’ve been feeding us for years,” Papa’s voice, though muffed, was either stern or pissed. The light scuff of feet and soft squeak of the floorboards meant that he was pacing.

“Try telling that to Stark and the rest that have plane tickets booked for Germany this Friday,” Steve sighed, sounding tired. He was probably sitting at the kitchen table while Papa walked holes in the kitchen floor.

“And if he signs it, what, then I’ll have to join?” Papa asked, voice a touch higher than normal.

Peter’s brows quirked at that, pressing his ear closer to the door until the entire side of his face was smooshed against it.

Papa was adamant about never joining the Avengers. He was perfectly content at his job as a mechanic and a father. Being made to join because of the papers was never anything Peter heard them bring up before.

“You won’t have to do anything, Buck. I can push that back for a least a little bit. You and Pete will be under a bit more surveillance than normal.”

Peter’s heart began to push into his throat as his stomach crawled with fire ants. He pulled his beanie off his face and tossed across the room before the small space was beginning to swell too tight.

Surveillance? He thought that had been done with after he officially became Papa’s son. Had people seen him crawl out of his window at night? Had anyone watched as he swung through the city knowing it was him? Would they tell his dad the second they got the chance?”

“But why? Why can’t they just leave us alone? Haven’t we proven a thousand fucking times that we’re not gonna do anything?” Papa’s voice was accompanied by a sharp thud of a cabinet being slammed closed. Knowing Steve, he wouldn’t have even flinched.

Peter leaned closer and closer until his converse clad feet lost traction on the ceiling.

“Yeah, a thousand times ten. But Senator Ross is a piece of shi–” Steve was cut off by a crash in Peter’s bedroom and both he and Papa were up in a flash.

“Peter?” Papa called, voice threaded with panic.

Peter pushed himself off the floor, biting back a groan of pain as kicked off his shoes and scrambled towards his bed, stumbling over stray clothes and other miscellaneous objects on his way.

He hurried under the covers, turned his back towards the door and threw his blanket over his head, covering his clothes enough that Papa wouldn’t see them if he came in. Peter closed his eyes shut and evened his breathing just as the door opened.

The soft orange glow from the hallway light filled part of the room, a large portion of it masked by Papa’s shadow. His breathing was erratic but quiet.

Peter managed to keep his steady even though guilt sat heavy like a rock in his throat. He hadn’t meant to scare Papa, especially not know.

“Petya?” Papa asked, voice softer as he took light footsteps towards Peter’s bed. He stood beside the mattress for only a moment before sitting down beside Peter’s back. The springs whined and the bed dipped, tilting Peter just slightly.

“He asleep?” Steve asked, creeping into the room to check the closet and under the desk. Getting an intruder wouldn’t have been outlandish. And in their house, it was always better to be safe than sorry.

Kukla poked her head in, sniffing for a moment before determining her presence would do more harm than good and walked back to her bed in the living room.

“Looks like it,” Papa murmured, “Don’t explain the noise, though.”

Steve hummed in acknowledgment before the soft sound of walking feet on the carpeted floor signaled his departure. He was probably off to check the rest of the apartment, make sure that everything else was safe, sound and normal.

Once Steve was gone, Papa gently put the back of his hand on Peter’s forehead like he was checking for a fever.

Peter’s breath caught, but he tried to pass it off as a choked snore. There was no way Papa would buy it. He knew Peter too well for it to pass.

He moved his palm down to Peter’s cheek, clicking his tongue as he felt the cool New York air laced with the sweat tacked against Peter’s temples. He knew Peter had been outside. Peter knew he knew. There wasn’t a way he didn’t.

“I know you’re awake,” Papa grumbled, taking his hand off Peter’s face. There was a pregnant pause before he stated, “I don’t know what’s happening, but you’re hiding something from me. Your windows open.” 

Peter cursed himself silently, wanting to scream at his basic stupidity. His window was to always be closed and locked, except in the sweltering hot afternoons when everyone was home.

The springs squeaked again as Papa stood, bringing the mattress back to its normal level. He walked to the window and slid it shut before switching the lock.

“I guess we’ll talk about it in the morning,” Papa sighed, running his hand over Peter’s hair, “Try to actually get a good night sleep.”

His hand left and so did he, pausing just before the door to say, “Love you.”

“Love you, too,” Peter whispered into his pillow.

Papa paused for just a moment before he shuffled out and the door clicked shut.


	2. Chapter 2

There was a time where Peter didn’t know what a home was. When he was young, sitting on cold concrete that scratched his legs and palms, Papa said it was a thing called Hydra.

“Not a place, Petya. A thing. An idea. A movement. Home is where we right the passage of the Earth and make it pure again.”

Peter always knew it wasn’t Papa’s words when they were stiff like that. No, someone else was speaking through him. Someone else often did. 

There, home was a cold place. A stiff place. A place where love and laughter were kept secret. A place where blood leaked from his knees, his elbows. It drenched his clothing and his hair when it came from others. A place where the only love came from Papa but even he grew cold the more it seeped through the walls.

When they were rescued, so was their idea of home.

For Peter, it was a conundrum. Was it with May in that apartment where she once lived with her husband and her sorrow was hidden behind television shows and romance novels? Was it with the puzzles and Dr. Kafka on the carpet of her office? Was it locked away with his father in Florida?

For Papa, it was with Steve while he waited to heal and return to his son. Then he learned it was once in New York with his mother and sister. They used to observe the Sabbath day and he’d eat matzahs on the back porch in summer while Steve coughed from a dying cold beside him.

Now, it was an apartment. An apartment with two dads, a son, and a dog.

Home was on the side of Queens where the once pristine pavement grew cracks and potholes. Outside each building and under every awning laid tents or sleeping bags where the homeless huddled close in the winter to keep from freezing. The shelters were always filled though it seemed like just as many were to sleep on the streets. Peter gave them his crumbled dollars and sack lunches while on his way to school. 

Home held sweltering heat in the summer and a sharp cold in the winter. Their neighbors played music from above, below and the sides. It shook the walls and Peter’s stomach and most nights he could tune it out or play his music just as loud in retaliation but sometimes he’d hear every twinge and twang and crack from the singer’s voice and the how each string of the guitar shook or the drum banged and his mind felt like it would split open and fall to the floor. Steve would give them a stern talking to about being considerate of others while Papa supplied Peter with Tylenol.

Home was clean. There was no dust nor clutter found in the front room but Peter always let his get messy. Home had soft floors and painted walls and shelves of books, pictures, and awards. There were magnets on the fridge and Steve’s paintings that Papa put up on the walls. 

Home is where they gave Kukla baths in the summer even though she’d soak them all when she’d jump out of the tub and scratch Peter’s legs. Home is where they watched game shows on Friday nights and where Steve helped Peter and Ned study World War II at the kitchen table. 

Home was constant.

Home was fragile.

Home could be taken away. 

***

How could Peter forget the tranquility before the storm? Things had been too well for too long. His secret was tucked securely where no one could find it. Surely, he must have suspected...surely, he must have known...

Sometimes, Peter believed, he was perhaps the dullest boy on Earth. 

***

Peter had a nightmare the night of the bank robbery. His first nightmare in nearly two months. Really, it was just an old memory, locked in the back of his hippocampus. 

In it, he was a small boy. Maybe five or six. 

“Don’t freeze,” the sharp tongue of a Russian agent hissed in his ear, hot breath spilling over the side of Peter’s youthful face, ”stop freezing. You are a soldier. Soldiers do not cry like babies.” 

He had skinny arms and dirty palms. There was snot and blood on his face. The girls stood in a line before him, calculating his next move before he realized what it was himself. 

Papa was on a mission in Liechtenstein, about to snipe an American politician on holiday for letting secrets slip past his tongue. He left Peter here alone. He had to do so often. 

Peter wrapped his small hands around his own small forearms and tilted his face downwards as he awaited the strike. 

How he hated going to the past. These were the times he came to terms with a fact he despised; he shouldn’t have stopped taking his meds. 

***

Wednesday nights were once Peter’s favorites because they had breakfast for dinner. Papa made a point to come home early to get the food started. Steve hated it, thought it was distasteful because he couldn’t quite grasp the concept of eating eggs past eight. 

“I mean, c’mon guys, breakfast is breakfast,” he’d state, flabbergasted as Peter and Papa would shrug with mouthfuls of oatmeal and bacon. Steve always managed to work late on Wednesdays, finding a report he forgot to file here or a mission that needed aid there. 

Papa took no offense to it, just muttered under his breath that Steve could eat those premade, saran wrapped, processed cheese-filled sandwiches from the vending machines strategically placed around Stark tower while he and Peter stuffed themselves full with good, homemade food. Who cares if it had bacon and hashbrowns and all the fixings that were reserved for the morning time? 

Peter and Papa liked to break the rules a bit to spite the time when they had to breathe a certain way to stay alive. 

But Peter began to grow a gradual disdain for Wednesdays because Papa came home early and expected Peter to sit down for a full meal when all he was itching to do was get back outside. 

On the worst Wednesday when Peter climbed the stairs up and up and up with bruises on his knees and bones that wept to the point of unbearable, he smelt the distinct stench of burnt eggs. 

He closed his eyes and groaned, gripping the handrail and his side. 

It was a Wednesday. Because of fucking course it was a Wednesday. Papa was already home and by the stench in the hallway, he already burnt his first batch. That would mean he’d want Peter to help out with the second, which then would mean he’d notice Peter’s limp and demand to know what happened and like many other things, Peter’s ability to lie convincingly had tapered off into nonexistence. 

He was just really good at not saying things. 

He was also good at hiding pain most days, especially with a looming threat of strong repercussions, but he’d just got plowed by a produce truck while making a miscalculated swing through an alleyway. 

He breathed through his nose, stood straighter, let go of his side and walked the rest of the way up the stairs until he could get to their door, unlock it, and let himself inside without so much of a stumble. 

“I burnt the damn eggs,” Papa said from the kitchen, begrudgingly whipping up a new batch. 

“Yeah, you stunk up the hallway,” Peter joked while tossing his backpack beside the kitchen table and biting his cheek to stop from groaning as he sat down. He was already starting to feel a bit better. It didn’t quite feel like he got, well, hit by a truck. 

“That where your backpack goes?” 

Peter shrugged, pulling out his binder and a textbook, “I got homework.” 

“Alright, fine,” Papa sighed, “guess I won’t make you help me.” 

He poured the eggs into a fresh pan without the previous scorched batch tacked to the sides. It sizzled and popped until the sound died off into a quiet hiss. 

Then, there was something that nearly never happened. 

A knock on the door. 

Peter hopped up and gripped the table, pain forgotten and ready to throw the table if need be. Papa turned off the stove and put a hand up for Peter to stay still as he watched the door carefully. At another knock, he plucked a knife from the block and slowly stepped towards the door. 

A voice called through it, “At ease, Manchurian Candidate et karate kid. It’s just me.” 

Papa rolled his eyes and waved at Peter to relax. He sat down, but he didn’t loosen his grip on the table. 

Papa dropped his knife on the table as he passed it to open the door. 

Mr. Stark barely offered as much as a hello as he barrelled his way inside. Papa raised an incredulous brow towards Peter as if to say _can you believe this?_

“Barnes,” he acknowledged, quirking his chin in Papa’s direction. “Pete. It’s been a while. You’ve gotten bigger and all that fun stuff,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand as he sat at the table beside Peter, “good to see you two are as chipper as always.” 

Papa rolled his eyes and went back to the kitchen, “Does Steve know you’re here?” 

“Oh, no,” Mr. Stark scoffed, tilting back in his chair, “and I’d prefer if this little meetup stayed between the three of us, yeah? And if you would be so kind as to not murder me for intruding into your property.” 

He flicked the knife Papa placed there away from him. It bumped against Peter’s school binder.

Papa turned the stove back on and continued making their eggs, “Nah, I wouldn’t kill you in front of Petya. He likes you too much. You want any eggs?” 

“Hard-boiled?” 

“We’ve got scrambled.” 

“I’m fine then,” Mr. Stark sighed dramatically. He leaned over to look at Peter’s textbook, “The reproduction unit, huh? That’s rough.” 

“What’re you here for, Stark?” Papa questioned, no longer patient enough for casual conversation, “Do you need Peter to help you with something? Or are you trying to recruit us again? Because you already know what the answer is.” 

Peter blinked and tilted his head towards Papa. 

“Oh no, nothing like that,” Mr. Stark denied as if that thought had never occurred to him, “But, if you happened to change your mind…” 

“We don’t do that anymore,” Papa said, scrabbling the eggs in the pan, “right, Petya?”

“Yeah! Yeah, totally,” Peter stammered nervously, caught off guard. His cheeks were flushed. “I mean yeah, we don’t do that anymore. Not like, yeah we do.”

Papa looked up from the stove, quirking an eyebrow quizzically, “Something you wanna tell me?”

Peter shook his head while Mr. Stark grabbed a device from his pocket.

“Showing might work just as well,” Mr. Stark offered, waving Papa over, who huffed and switched off the stove before walking to the table, “you see, I found something funny while looking through some surveillance footage from the bank that got robbed last night. There are some ‘unknown, alien-like’ weapons on the street or what have you that the FBI wants me to track down. Yadda Yadda. I won’t bore you with the details. That’s not why I’m here.” 

A bank?

Peter slid his eyes carefully to Mr. Stark. 

A bank that got robbed? With alien-like weaponry? A bank, a bank like the one last night where -

Peter’s pencil snapped in two without him realizing. Splinters plunged into his flesh. 

“Wait - ” he blurted and lunged across the table to grab the device out of Mr. Stark’s hand but his nerves wrecked his agility and Mr. Stark simply turned to avoid him. 

Mr. Stark flicked the device and a video appeared in front of them. One of four men wearing plastic Avengers masks and a swinging superhero who seemed a lot like - 

“That’s you, isn’t it?” he asked, tone accusing and all-knowing and Peter was frozen with his arm outstretched, still wanting to snatch the device away. 

Papa stood very still behind him. His arms were crossed. His lips were parted and his brow was pushed down, down until it made his eyes narrow. They never left the video. Mr. Stark conveniently paused it right as Peter’s beanie covered face took over the entire screen. 

_“Did we not train you better than that, spider?”_ The old Russian agent hissed once more, _“Will you ever learn, you simple, worthless thing?_

It was quiet for a long time. The eggs were past sizzling, getting cold on the stovetop. Mr. Stark stared at Peter. Peter at his hands. Papa at the video. 

The clock on the wall didn’t tick. The fridge didn’t hum. The birds outside the window opened to vent out the stench of burnt eggs didn’t tweet. 

“Peter,” Papa seethed slowly, lifting a finger towards the video, “what is this?” 

_Lie, you idiot. You were once so good at it._

But he couldn’t. 

He looked at the ground like a coward. He rubbed the back of his neck and meekly answered, “Your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man?” 

Papa unfroze and pivoted so fast Peter jumped. He snapped something very sharp in Russian, “are you out of your goddamn mind?” 

His face was very red and very angry. He huffed like a locomotive. 

Peter looked at his hands and mumbled something back in the same language, “you don’t even know that’s me.” 

Mr. Stark’s eyes bounced between them like he was watching a tennis match. He cursed himself under his breath for not bringing his Russian-English dictionary. He hated feeling out of the loop, which was precisely why Papa chose not to speak his language. 

Papa pointed his finger towards Peter’s bedroom door and barked another string of Russian. Peter opened his mouth to argue but all it took was Papa widening his eyes in warning for Peter to scurry off. He closed the door loudly behind him. 

***

Then, there were two. 

Tony shifted awkwardly in his stiff wood seat because of course Steve Rogers would purchase the most uncomfortable chairs known to man, while Bucky began storming around the apartment. 

He kneeled in front of the television and grabbed ahold of a game console Tony gave Peter a few Christmases back. Back before things started to get tense and he wasn’t invited to Sunday dinner anymore. 

Bucky ripped the cords from the wall and tucked the console under his arm before storming to grab something else. 

“You know, I don’t actually take pleasure in getting kids in trouble,” Tony called from the table, tilting slightly to watch Bucky huff and puff while taking these books here or that game there out of the living room and dumping them into his and Steve’s, “I’m just worried about him. Could’ve been killed if someone - ”

He stopped himself when Bucky, with an arm full of their plasma T.V., flashed him a look so dark it made Tony’s stomach freeze up like he just chugged an ICEE. 

“Right,” he said, waving a finger and pushing himself up from the table, “I’ll be showing myself out then.” 

“You do that,” Bucky bit, storming the rest of the way to his room. He came back out after carelessly dropping the television on his bed and went searching for other Peter-things to confiscate. 

“You know,” Tony trailed, holding open the front door, “the Accords are being signed tomorrow. It might prevent this sort of thing if you and Steve wanted to - ”

“Out!” Bucky yelled. Tony nodded and scurried away. 

That Winter Soldier was one scary fucker. Yessiree...

***

Two years back on Peter’s walk back home from school, he stopped by a homeless man lying in some trash. The man had dumped out the trash himself. The bin was tipped over beside him. 

“Hey Jonathan,” Peter greeted, passing him a five-dollar bill, “what’re you doing in the trash?”

“I’m cleaning it, see?” Jonathan picked up an old chip bag and simply moved it to the side. He made no effort to throw it away. He just added it to another pile of litter. Then, he pointed at the empty spot of grass, “that spot’s clean now.” 

***

The air in the apartment was as thick as bricks. Papa was huffing in the dining room, making a ruckus moving stuff around and pacing. Probably asking himself _what am I gonna do with that kid? What am I gonna do with him? Jesus H. Christ, what the hell am I gonna do with him?_

Peter was sniffling on top of his bed, not quite crying but not quite not. His face was buried in the soft fur of Kukla’s stomach. Her easy up down, up down breathing always worked to calm him. It always worked to get him to breathe right. Right now though, it just made his head go up down, up down. 

Since he heard Mr. Stark leave, there was a countdown with no start and no end buzzing in Peter’s mind for when Papa would come into his room and say, “what the hell am I gonna do with you?” 

Peter didn't want to explain. He didn’t want to look at his father’s face and say that no, maybe he wasn’t doing alright and no, he didn’t think he could stop. Quitting the clubs didn’t help. Getting no sleep didn’t help. It just pushed everything back and back until his entire days were filled with familiar violence that should have been left on the other land. 

But at least he was saving people. _This_ helped, if not him then countless pedestrians. If he was getting in trouble, why wasn’t Steve for doing the same thing? Or any of the Avengers? 

Except maybe that’s why something was being signed in Germany. Except maybe Peter would understand that better if he wasn’t treated like a baby all the time. Maybe having killed people or watching them die gave him thicker skin, skin thick enough to deal with whatever the hell was going on. And Papa wouldn’t even be so angry right now if he could just realize that Peter wasn’t soft or stupid or a child. 

But still, Peter made him worry. Those were the only times Papa was ever really angry with him. He made Papa worry so much that he was tearing up the living room, slamming drawers and opening doors and stomping holes in the carpet. 

God damn it, Peter felt like dirt. His heart felt sore and it made his left arm numb. His stomach felt like it could disintegrate under the softest touch. His head throbbed like he hadn’t slept in a week. Which really, if he thought about it, wasn’t far from the truth. 

He rolled off of Kukla just before real, hot tears leaked from his eyes. He wiped them away with the sleeve of his jacket and huffed, just like Papa in the living room. 

He was fifteen now. Too old for tears. But Jesus, he felt like dirt. 

Papa’s pacing didn’t last long, maybe ten minutes or so. He knocked on Peter’s door soon after, because he was still respectful of his son’s space even if Peter wasn’t respectful of himself. 

Peter scrubbed a palm over his eyes and blinked to take away their redness. It didn’t work. 

“Come in,” he answered.

Papa opened the door, face cold as stone as he closed it and leaned back against it. His arms were crossed stiffly over his chest. His whole body was tense. 

Peter sat up and Kukla quirked her head. 

“I’m so sorry,” he croaked, “I’m really sorry. I didn’t think - ”

“How long?” Papa snipped, his stone face not melting an inch. 

And Peter wasn’t an idiot, so he didn’t respond with _huh? What do you mean? How long since what?_ He focused on his hands and the plaid pattern of his comforter and said, “I mean, I have really kept track.” 

“You’re smart. Make an estimate.” 

Peter picked at a nail and counted back the months in his head. 

“A little over a year?” He mumbled, peeking up towards his father. 

Papa’s eyes grew wide. He sputtered incredulously, “A year?” 

Peter sat up straighter, voice pitched as he tried to explain himself, “Well, I wasn’t doing this all the time for that long! Maybe only a couple of months!” 

Papa stared with his lips pressed and eyes narrowed. He blinked once. Twice. Three times. Peter looked back at his hands. 

“So this is what’s been going on,” Papa spoke finally, tone absolute and disappointed, “let’s get this straight. Your grades have been dropping. You quit all your clubs. You’ve been getting detention. You haven’t been sleeping. And what else? Because I’m sure I’m missing something.” 

Peter thumbed his comforter. Kukla nudged his hand but he paid her affection no mind, “That’s it.” 

“Well, then that’s enough. You could have gotten hurt. You could’ve gotten killed! And for what? This Spider shit? I thought we were done with this, Peter,” His voice had gone tight with anger. His arms and face were red. His fingers dug into his forearms, “And to think that I let myself believe that you were doing better. That the grades and the sleep were just you going through some rut again and I was being a paranoid father.” 

“I didn’t mean - ”

“You’re not talking yet. I am. You’re listening,” Papa snapped, “Do you know how dangerous this is? Even if Stark says otherwise, we don’t know if Hydra is still out there. Do you know what they’d do if they found you?” 

Peter’s fingers were digging so hard into the comforter he could feel the seams start to tear. They were shaking. His arms were so tense they began to ache. He knew what they’d do. God, did he know it. 

They’d rip him apart. They’d put him in the chair. They wouldn’t even kill him. 

Papa didn’t wait for an answer. He didn’t need one. He charged back in with, “No seeing Ned. No nothing after school unless it’s academic. No going to the park or the movies or wherever. No T.V. No phone. No anything for two months.”

Peter snapped his head back up and sputtered, “Two _months_?” 

“Do you wanna make it forever?” Papa challenged.

Peter ducked his head and sheepishly replied, “No.” 

Papa didn’t stop there. “From now on when you leave this apartment, you’re not going alone. When you walk to school, when you go on a field trip, when you take out the goddamn trash, Steve or I'm gonna have to be with you.” 

“How long’s that gonna last?!” Peter cried, sounding suspiciously close to whining. 

“I don’t know, Peter, until I can trust you again? You’ve made it very clear that I can’t do that,” Papa barked, but his face softened when he saw how Peter’s fell. He sighed and dragged a hand down his face before a sudden thought occurred to him. 

“Where is it?” He asked, looking around the room. 

“Where’s what?” Peter looked up and followed his father’s eyes. 

“The thing you used to make webs. I know you don’t still have the one they made you, so where is it? And the costume, too.” 

Papa was already on his way to the closet when Peter exhaled, got up and grabbed a ruler on his desk. He pushed open a loose tile on the ceiling behind Papa’s back and the costume spilled out, making Papa flinch. He shot a glare to Peter as soon as he righted himself and plucked the clothes off the floor to tuck them under his left arm. 

“And the weapon?” 

Peter sniffed and pulled his nightstand forward, letting the web shooter fall out of its hiding place and tumble across the floor. 

Papa looked at it for a moment, assessing it, pushing back a thousand memories of a small boy with a bleeding wrist who couldn’t sleep because it hurt so bad. That same small boy that now stood as a teenager in front of him and made a replica for himself. 

Peter looked at it as well only he saw something different. He saw a weapon he could take on and off as he pleased. He saw growth. He saw choice. 

Papa crouched down picked it up with his pointer finger and thumb like it disgusted him. He looked at it then at Peter then back at it and muttered, “Unbelievable.” 

He tucked it inside of the clothes so it wouldn’t touch him. He then fixed Peter with a stern and pointed look, “I trusted you. You told me you were feeling better and making wise choices and I believed you,” he shook his head and adjusted the clothes so they sat snugger and raised his right hand to point a stern finger at his son to reiterate, “No more. No more of this Spider-Man.”

With that, Papa turned and marched out of the room with everything that Peter had come to be secured under his arm. He shut the door firmly behind him. 

Peter fell face first on top of his bed. Kukla licked his ear and nestled her head on top of his. 

He wouldn’t let himself cry. 

***

Peter finally worked up the nerve to get up two hours later. It was dark now. Dusk had come and gone without Peter noticing. 

It’d been a while since night had fallen when he wasn’t outside to see it. 

He stood in the doorway of his room, watching as Papa scrubbed the pans in the sink. His back was to him, a towel was thrown over his shoulder like he’d do at the shop. He was grumbling to the pan under his breath. The goddamn burnt eggs just weren’t coming off. 

The first thing Peter noticed was the vacant table where the T.V. once stood. The game console that once sat below it was gone, too. Then, he saw the half-empty bookshelf and completely cleaned video game section. 

Peter twisted his fingers and contemplated going up and saying something or turning around and hiding in his room and never looking at his father again. He was leaning towards the latter. He hated confrontation. But if he didn’t speak now, rip off the awkward conversation and apology like a bandaid, then the ice growing between him and his father would only get colder. 

Kukla came up behind him and bumped her big cold nose against his wrist. He twisted around to look at her and she bumped his wrist again. 

_Go over there you big baby,_ she seemed to say. _The longer you wait, the worse you’ll make it._

So, as to not disappoint Kukla, Peter stepped forward. 

He didn’t have a script for this, no apology at the ready or plan of action. He didn’t even know how to begin so he just walked up to Papa, who was actively avoiding looking over by furiously scrubbing at that pan. 

Peter bumped his head on Papa’s shoulder and started with, “I’m really am sorry, Papa.” 

Because there wasn’t anything else to be said. He could tell him that he wasn’t sorry he did it or that he needed to go out again before dawn. It was already eight. The evils night held had already begun. 

Papa sighed quickly through his nose. He still scrubbed at the pan when he said, “I know.” 

That wasn’t the response Peter was hoping for. He was expecting an ‘it’s alright kid’ or perhaps ‘it’s fine, but don’t do it again.’ 

His nose scrunched. He kept his head on his father’s arm even as Papa reached forward to pump more soap onto his sponge. He looked at Peter in the corner of his eyes and snorted, “You think I was gonna forgive you that easy? Clearly, you don’t know your dad very well.” 

Peter’s face fell, “I was kinda hoping you would.” 

“I’ll forgive you,” Papa assured, washing the pan much gentler now, “you just have to earn it first.” 

Peter nodded sullenly, watching the greasy, dark and eggy water swirl around in the pan. Papa tilted it to dump the dirty water out and pecked the top of Peter’s head. 

Peter groaned and pushed his dad away, who only laughed loud enough to chip away at the cold air between them, “Okay, okay! I get it. You’re too old. That’s fine,” he placed the pan in the sink and nudged Peter towards the table, “go finish your homework. Steve should be back any minute now.” 

Peter faltered on his way there, biting his tongue to suppress another groan. God, if he thought Papa was upset…

Steve would cry if he found out. 

***

_“He did what?!”_

***

Peter scanned accelerated calculus problems and studied the human anatomy at the kitchen table while Papa and Steve putzed around in Peter’s room. 

Steve came home maybe thirty minutes prior. Papa immediately dragged him to their room to explain everything in hushed tones. Always in hushed tones. Which was pointless anyway if it was about Peter. What was there to be quiet about? 

Steve, of course, was panicked. He came out with his hands on his hips to hide their shaking and lectured Peter for about ten minutes, going over all the same points Papa had. He could have gone on all night if Papa didn’t pull him away. Pull him away, strangely, to Peter’s room. 

At first, Peter thought it was Papa’s last precaution to make sure Peter wasn’t hiding anything else. Only there wasn’t anything else in there but tests with low grades, dirty laundry, and flashcards from the eighth grade he should have thrown away. 

He had been so focused on his work and the guilt eating its way through his stomach and coming up with plans to be better again that he didn’t listen to anything from his room. 

It wasn’t until he was sent to bed at the early hour of eleven, with Papa telling him to, “Actually go to sleep. You’ll give yourself a stroke if you keep this up,” that he realized what they were doing. 

Of course, he tried to follow his father’s instructions. He laid down, closed his eyes, counted sheep, recited the dullest facts about the most boring presidents, turned his pillow over and over to get the ‘good side’ and even called Kukla to sleep squished up beside him. 

He just couldn’t do it. 

The room was too warm. His mind worked too fast. His chest was too weighty, his eyelids too light. There was a need deep in the bones of his legs and ankles and hands to get out of his room, only that would be stupid because Papa would find out. 

So, he paced. 

He walked holes in the carpet much like Papa would in the living room when he too couldn’t will himself to sleep. Peter thought it would tire him out or maybe get him to think of something else rather than the window that was right there and so easy to open and so easy to leave through. 

Except the pacing only made him think. 

So what if Papa was nervous? So what if Tony cared? Peter had an obligation to the clueless civilians down on the street to help them, to save them. 

It just wasn’t fair that he was being treated like a child who knew nothing of evil. He knew. Everyone knew he knew. He shouldn’t be treated like this. He didn’t deserve it. 

And why the hell would he need a costume or a weapon when his strength was injected into his tiny veins so long ago? He could climb walls. He could bend metal. He could hear the squish of molten rock at the center of the Earth if he so wanted to. 

He didn’t feel his feet move towards the window or his hands on the glass until he was pushing it up, up with no budge. 

His eyebrows furrowed as he blinked in confusion. He tried again. Nothing. He tried a third time. Not even a crack. 

“What?” he whispered to himself, stepping up on his toes to look survey the window closer. 

There were three little knobs attached to the top of the windowpane. Vibranium magnets of Mr. Stark’s invention. 

Peter had only seen them once before; in Mr. Stark’s palm on the day Peter moved into the apartment as he handed them to Papa. 

It was understood that these were to be used in the worst of last case scenarios. They could be put on a door hinge, a wall or window pane and immediately lock said areas with a force strong enough to best a supersoldier. 

They were given as a safety precaution for Peter. If for some reason Papa was to revert back to the soldier and lose control, then Steve could wrestle him into a room and put these magnets on the door to keep him locked in. 

They were to protect Peter. Always to protect Peter. Only now they were working against him. 

Peter growled and pushed himself away from the window to storm out of the room. 

His door hitting the wall caught the attention of both his parents who were sitting at the kitchen table discussing something that Peter, of course, wasn’t meant to hear. There was a report clutched in Papa’s hands and a cellphone in Steve’s. 

Their heads snapped up in unison and their eyes were wide in shock for only a second. 

“You’re supposed to be asleep,” Papa stated.

“Why did you put a lock on my window?” Peter demanded, stopped in front of the table. His breath came out too fast and his face was red. 

Papa raised an eyebrow and then slowly leaned back in his chair, “So you were trying to sneak out again after we just had a conversation about this? It should be perfectly clear why I did it.” 

“I need to get out there!” Peter yelled. 

“You don’t need to do anything,” Papa snapped, voice dropping the calm facade, “what you need to do is get a decent night’s sleep and stop arguing with me.” 

With that, Papa’s attention dropped back to the report he and Steve were discussing earlier. 

Peter wanted to ignore his frustration. He wanted to nod and go off to bed and get a decent night's sleep so he could function in school in the morning. He wanted to see that his dad was right. But the strong mixture of anger and panic settled in his stomach was now boiling. 

“You’re trying to control everything!” Peter fumed but Papa and Steve were set on ignoring, discussing the report in low tones. Peter wasn’t having it. “You’re just like Hydra!” 

And that made the world standstill. 

Steve’s head shot up as soon as the words sunk in while Papa lifted his head slower. There was an eerie calm in the way he held his composure, but his shoulders were tensed and his grip on the paper made it crumble. 

“What did you just say to me?” Papa questioned slowly. Peter felt his blood run cold, but it switched back to boiling just as quick. 

“Alright, guys, that’s enough,” Steve tried to placate, “just go to bed, Peter. We’ll talk in the morning.” 

“You know what?” Peter continued, ignoring Steve completely and staring down his father, “maybe you should just sign the Accords. Then maybe we’ll be forced to actually do something important and not waste time on bullshit!” 

“Peter, enough!” Steve scolded, but Papa rested a hand on his arm to calm him down or maybe just get him to stop talking. Papa was glaring at Peter and Peter was glaring back. 

“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” Papa nearly snarled in his anger. His tone was still low. He hadn’t shouted yet. He was really angry if he wasn’t shouting. 

“Yes, I do!” 

“I’m not finished!” Papa snapped, patience breaking as his anger reached the boiling point, “you’re going to go to your room and go to bed and I’m not going to hear you for the rest of the night. I’m still pissed that you’ve been doing this in the first place. If you don’t go right now Peter, I swear to god, you’re never leaving this apartment without constant supervision again, do you understand me?”

Peter shook his head in disbelief, but turned on his heel to stomp away, not without spitting, “Fuck you.” 

“Go to your room!” Papa fumed once more, pointing his finger towards Peter’s door. 

“Where do you think I’m going?!” Peter sassed back and slammed his door so harsh it shook the walls for a minute. 

“Well,” Steve started after the shaking stopped. Bucky was still breathing heavily beside him, glaring at Peter’s door as if the boy was standing right there, “at least we’re giving the neighbors something to complain about.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact: the homeless man in the trash was actually based entirely off of a man outside of my work. he also tried to explain how everything worked on a time continuum but i couldn't quite figure that one out. (also the man is okay. we got him out of the trash and an outreach person got him to a shelter.) 
> 
> im not overly fond of this chapter, but its one of those that has to happen for the rest of the story to start rolling and make sense. 
> 
> i hope you guys enjoyed! 
> 
> -emily


	3. Chapter 3

There was a thick book of Russian fairy tales with gold-lined pictures and pretty words given to the soldier in his son during a harsh winter. Compensation for their lack of blankets. 

The last story was ripped out. Some of the pages were burnt and the tops had brown stains of blood. A guard found it in the front room of a home they ransacked where no one was left alive. 

The soldier and his son paid the blood and burns no mind. So rarely were they gifted anything so pretty. 

The son, only four, sat on his father’s knee as his father told the story of the Tsar Saltan. 

They were both shivering. As the father spoke, steam rose from his mouth. He used his left arm, his cold arm, to hold the book while his right arm, his warm arm, wrapped tightly around his son. 

“‘If the Little Father Tsar became my husband, I would bear him seven hero-sons like bright falcons. Their legs should be golden to the knee and their arms silver to the elbow, and in their hair should be little stars,” the father read, voice gravelly and underused. 

“Papa, you have a silver arm!” the son exclaimed, pointing to the book, “that makes you a hero-son!” 

The father smiled like a grimace and said, “Perhaps, Petya. Perhaps.” 

But of course, as the story goes, those sons were trapped by the Baba Yaga. When rescued, they were thrown in the ocean to drown with their mother.

***

Peter blinked awake to the muffled sound of construction, city traffic, pigeons and his alarm. 

He rolled over and blindly swatted at it until it stopped chirping. His face was buried in his pillow and he batted Kukla away when she licked his ear, but she got him to sit up. 

Though his eyes were a little bleary, he felt well-rested. His eyes didn’t burn nor did his head feel heavy. He stretched his arms over his head and then slumped over, blinking his eyes into focus and wiping dried drool off his lips. 

He’d almost feel calm if it weren’t for the fight lingering in the air. 

There were no sizzling sounds of breakfast being made in the kitchen nor was there the casual chatter between Steve and his dad, so either dad left early or he was giving everyone the silent treatment. 

Peter sighed and got up, shrugging on a clean-ish shirt from the floor and jeans hung over his desk chair. He grabbed his backpack and stumbled out to the kitchen, mind still fogged with sleep. 

He was a little surprised to see Steve at the table already. Not that he wasn’t an early bird. Of course, he was. Most days he’d already gone for a run and ate his breakfast before he yelled at Peter to come out and eat his. 

He usually wasn’t so quiet and he almost never read the newspaper. But there he was, sitting stoically at the table with an empty bowl in front of him and today’s paper in his hands. 

Peter paused in his doorway, taking a quick glance around the apartment to locate his father, but he was nowhere to be found. 

Finally, Peter reluctantly asked, “Where’s Bucky?” 

Steve didn’t look up from the paper, but he did raise an unimpressed brow.

Peter sighed and tried again, “Where’s my dad?” 

“He went for a walk a while after you went to bed,” Steve explained, flipping to the next page, “he’ll be back after work, probably.” 

Peter nodded, but let them fall back into silence for a few stiff moments. 

“Eat your breakfast,” Steve said, nodding towards the box of cheerios and empty bowl laid out in front of Peter’s seat, “we’re leaving in fifteen.” 

***

Peter hoped that Steve would ignore his dad’s plan to have someone follow him everywhere, but he was disappointed to see Steve lacing up his shoes and clipping on Kukla’s leash when Peter was about to leave. 

They walked in silence for a while. They even spent the entire subway ride not speaking. Steve, of course, was the one to end it once they got off the subway. 

“You know what’s the worst part about getting old?” Steve asked.

Peter rolled his eyes towards the ceiling and counted the little grains in each tile. 

“Hm?” He grunted, not caring about the answer either way. 

“Remembering what it’s like to be young.” 

Peter exhaled and twisted one of the straps of his backpack. He didn’t respond. Pointless comments are unworthy of responses. And it wasn’t like he knew what to say to that anyway. 

“You’re dad told me what you’ve been getting up to,” Steve continued colloquially. 

Peter rolled his eyes again, “I figured.” 

“I’m not going to tell you what to do,” Steve stated, “I’m probably the last person to say anything. You’d know, your dad and I have told you enough about what I was like when I was young, but that doesn’t mean I agree with what you’re doing.” 

Steve glanced over at Peter through the corner of his eye, so Peter moved his glare towards the ground. The grates beneath his feet trembled as the subway zoomed below. Then, the sidewalk turned moldy again. 

Steve huffed and muttered, “Your face is gonna get stuck that way.” 

Peter glared harder. 

“Your dad and I just want you to be safe,” Steve continued and Peter was about three seconds away from yelling at him that he _didn’t give a shit what he and Papa want_ while in the middle of the crowded Queens sidewalk. Not like it mattered. Steve would just keep yammering. 

And he did, “I got in a lot of trouble as a kid. With the police, with the guys I would fight with, with your dad. It didn’t matter for a while, but I created a lot of bad blood with all kinds of people. Your dad used to get so pissed at me,” Steve paused to laugh a bit, “and I’d get pissed right back. So I get why you’re upset with him. With us. But you gotta know we have your best interests at heart and you keeping this up is only gonna get you in a lot of trouble. Not just with your dad, but all sorts of people you don’t want to have trouble with.” 

Peter shrugged sullenly but his glare didn’t falter, “But he’s suffocating me,” he most certainly did not whine, though it was petulant, “It’s not like I’m little anymore.” 

Steve sighed and asked, “Does that really matter?” 

Peter shrugged again. Maybe it was a little childish. Maybe he should use his words. 

_But words don’t win fights. Fists win fights. Guns win fights. We’re not training you to lose sp-_

He squeezed his eyes shut because the sidewalk was about to start spinning and the gum stains were starting to look less like tar and more like brown blood. 

“Why’d you do it anyway?” Steve pressed on, almost pleading for an answer, “You could’ve been really hurt. Or arrested. At the very least, that video they played of you on the news is drawing a giant arrow on your back. People can see that, Peter. Bad people.” 

How Peter wanted to press his hands over his ears and scream for Steve to just _stop_. Stop asking him questions. Stop ripping a new hole of guilt through his center. He’d apologize. He’d say all the right things. He didn’t mean to make them worry. He didn’t want to be in trouble. He didn’t want to be found and dragged back to that awful compound with the stains on the wall and the cold, cold floor and the girls who never smiled. 

He wanted his dad. 

He wanted to kill himself for being such a child. 

He swallowed and asked, with a voice high and crackling, “I was on the news?” 

“Pete,” Steve groaned, “Can you just answer the question?” 

Steve was getting fed up him. Peter knew it. It was obvious. Maybe Steve would get so tired of him that he and Papa would just walk out one night in the middle of dinner and leave Peter behind. Peter would be halfway through doing the dishes when he’d stop and stare at the empty apartment and realize. 

_Oh. They left me here alone._

Peter scratched at his forehead, hard enough to leave four bright red lines. That way his forehead burned more than his eyes and if they started tearing he’d just scratch himself again. 

“I don’t know,” he choked out. His voice was pitched up again. Sometimes he forgot how young he was until he heard his own voice. He inhaled through his nose to calm himself and quipped, “Why did you do anything when you were my age?” 

Steve, who hadn’t noticed a thing because he was paying far too much attention to Kukla sniffing a bush, replied with, “Touché.” 

They walked in silence for a while. Kukla, in ignorant bliss, went along sniffing and smiling at everything that crossed her path. 

The school appeared in the distance when Peter asked, “Why aren’t you guys going to Germany with Mr. Stark?” 

Steve stumbled a bit, darting his eyes towards Peter before his face morphed to hold a tight smile. He carefully explained, “Your father and I don’t agree with what Tony and the others are doing. With what it stands for.” 

“What does it stand for?” Peter proded because he knew Steve wasn’t nearly good at keeping his mouth shut as Papa was. 

Steve chewed his lip for a second as he contemplated the best response. Finally, he said, “Let’s just your dad’s not the most suffocating person out there.” 

***

“Are you sure you can’t go?” Ned asked, practically begging for Peter to give him a different answer, “I’m sure your dad will understand! We bought these tickets months ago.” 

“I can’t,” Peter pouted, picking at the soggy cafeteria pizza with one hand while the other held up his head, “I’m grounded.” 

“What for?” Michelle asked from the opposite end of the table, sitting far enough away that she shouldn't have been able to hear them through the raucous cafeteria. She had a stack of books in front of her, _Anna Karenina_ sitting at the bottom. 

“Something stupid,” Peter grumbled, still poking his pizza. Finally, he pushed his tray away to look at Ned, “and we can rent _Beetlejuice_ as soon as my dad gets off my back, I promise.” 

“But,” Ned started, frowning at his beautiful homemade lunch of snack packs and a hearty sandwich, “but they’re playing it in the park. They never play it in the park. And we already started working on our costumes!” 

They were supposed to go as players from the dead football team. 

“I’m really sorry, Ned. Really,” Peter apologized earnestly. He really did want to go. This was one of the only things he’d been looking forward to but of course, his dad had to be an ass and take it away. 

“It’s okay,” Ned sighed, though he looked very sad, “Hey, do you want my cheez-its?” 

“God, I thought you’d never ask. Yes, please.” 

Ned handed Peter his chips and Peter offered his pizza, but it was too greasy and doughy for anyone to accept. 

As Peter dumped a handful into his palm to drop into his mouth, Ned nudged him hard enough that it knocked them out of his hand. Some hit his face as they rained down and scattered across the table. 

“Dude!” Peter whined, wiping the cheez-its into his hand and dumping them on his tray. As he turned to ask Ned why he nudged him, he saw why. 

Liz stood at the front of the cafeteria hanging up the homecoming poster. 

Peter’s face flushed as he cleared his throat and asked, “Did Liz get a new top?” 

“No, we’ve seen that one before. Just not with that shirt.” 

“It matches her socks.” 

“She has good style. Very ambitious.” 

“I have fake detention slips,” Michelle stated and took a bite of her sandwich. 

“Huh?” Peter asked, still looking at Liz. When Michelle's statement absorbed fully, he blinked and twisted towards her, “Wait, what? Why?” 

The only answer Michelle offered was a one-shoulder shrug. 

Peter slowly started to turn away when she continued, “You can have one if you want.” 

He turned back towards her with his mouth opened and head tilted. He blinked a few more times as he tried to piece together what she was telling him. Finally, he was able to ask, “Why would I want a detention slip?” 

“So you have an excuse to go out,” she explained with a roll of her eyes, as if it had been completely obvious, “Your dad thinks you have detention. You go see _Beetlejuice_. Everyone’s happy.” 

Ned peered over Peter’s shoulder at her and asked, “What’s in it for you?” 

She stared at her book and stated, “I got my ticket a while ago, but I don’t have anyone to go with. I mean, I don’t care if I don’t go with anyone, but we could split on snacks or something. It’s cheaper if there’s three of us.” 

Peter and Ned glanced at each other with matching looks of bewilderment. Peter put on a smile and turned back to Michelle. 

“That’s really nice, but don’t worry about it,” Peter politely declined, “my dad would just find out anyway.” 

Michelle shrugged, though her face fell for just a second. She turned back to her book at said, “Have fun being on lockdown.” 

***

So, the man on fifth might have been an okay guy. Maybe he was slipping his hand into his girlfriend's pocket as a romantic gesture or perhaps he just dropped his wallet and it ended up in her jeans. 

But Peter, well, he was a little jittery. He looked past the woman laughing and the man grinning back. 

See, he had ditched school a little early, only five minutes or so and it wasn’t his fault that no one questioned why he was in the bathroom for so long. He ditched school because he just knew Steve and all his Captain America glory would be standing in the front parking lot, hands in his pockets and chit-chatting with middle-aged moms. 

And Peter couldn’t have that. 

He wasn’t some little kid who needed someone to hold his hand during the walk back home. He was fifteen, for God’s sake. He was more than capable of walking home fine, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t a little shaky over the possibility of getting caught. 

So when he saw that good-natured boyfriend stick his hand in his girlfriend’s pocket, Peter’s mind went straight to pickpocket. 

He was ready to charge them, hackles raised, when a whoosh of air blew past and a metal hand gripped his arm. 

He jumped, twisted and kicked to break the sternum of his attacker, but his foot only clanked against the metal of Iron Man’s suit. 

He squeaked and hopped back, shaking out his foot as Mr. Stark released his arm. The couple sauntered away unperturbed. 

“Why did you do that?” Peter hissed, still shaking out his foot, “They got away!” 

“You see, I’m not the biggest fan of PDA myself, but I usually refrain from attacking people for showing affection. No matter how nauseating,” Mr. Stark explained, floating in midair like a cartoon. Even in the metal suit, his movements were a little too robotic. 

Peter scoffed and placed his foot firmly back on the ground, “Aren’t you supposed to be in Germany?” 

The helmet lifted then to reveal no one inside before sliding closed again. 

Peter huffed a laugh, one hand on his stomach and the other lifting sarcastically, “Of course!” He spat, “of course you wouldn’t actually be here. What, did my dad send you to spy on me?” 

“About that, your dad’s -” 

“If you think you can stop me, you can’t,” Peter snapped. He stuck his chest out and crossed his arms, “I know that’s why you told my dad in the first place so if you’re planning on tattling again, then go ahead. I don’t care.” 

“Save it, kid,” Mr. Stark cut in, voice sharp with impatience. “If you gave me a second to talk you’d know that your dad’s not even home.” 

The fire that started in Peter’s stomach was doused. He stumbled a bit, and asked with a squeaky pitched voice, “Then where is he?” 

“About that um,” Mr. Stark paused, “He’s kind of...on the run?” 

***

It was something. Very hollow. 

A coin dropped into a deep well. Spinning and spinning and falling and falling until it hit the bottom with a soft _clink_

A soft _oh_. A soft _they left me here alone_.

***

There was a plan for things like this. 

A backpack was kept under the floorboards in the front room. It was under the fourth pane from the window and the eighth from the wall. It held money from nine different countries, three fake passports, power bars, and four guns, varying in sizes but all quite small. Papa owned an apartment in Romania, the country his mother sailed from to arrive in Ellis Island. It was listed under a dead man’s name. Peter would be safe there. 

And if for some unforeseen reason they were split up, Papa would text coordinates to the lost parties. 

It was understood, like many things, that Peter was the first priority. Get Peter out. Make sure Peter was safe. Get him on a plane. Don’t let anyone see him. Give him food when he’s hungry, water for his thirst, and find him a shelter to rest. 

Papa always treated himself as an afterthought. As long as Peter was okay, then everything would be fine. But if Papa was taken or killed and left Peter in this world alone with four guns, a fake passport, and a snack, then Peter would not be left okay. 

Now, after a silent one hour flight with Happy, he was left alone, numb and helpless in an interrogation room in the FBI headquarters in Washington D.C. The room was cold and sterile. A metal table sat in front of him. The walls were thick but not soundproof. The muffled commotion from the buzzing building made its way inside. May sat beside him, picking at her nails and bouncing her leg like a jackhammer. 

“It’ll be alright, Pete,” she assured with a wavering voice, “it’ll be just fine.” 

Right now in Queens, his home was raided by an elite SWAT team with guns strapped to their chests. They tore apart the living room, kitchen, bath, and bedrooms. The immaculate condition Steve strove to keep their apartment in was ripped apart in minutes. 

One cooed Kukla out of her hiding place beneath Peter’s bed while the rest went on tearing and searching and stomping throughout the entire apartment. 

The most they found was that backpack under the floorboards, but apparently, that was enough. 

Of course, Peter didn’t know this. He didn’t know they were in his home nor the size of the search party out to find his father and Steve. All he knew is that they weren’t here and he was alone. 

He stared emptily at the television set playing the breaking news in the top corner of the room. He can’t find the power to blink nor speak. May’s still whispering assurances beside him. 

“I’m sure it’s a fluke, Pete. I’m sure of it. You’re dad’s a good man. This isn’t him at all. They’ll realize that, too. I’ll vouch for him in front of the goddamn president if I have to. Would the president _be_ at a trial for this sort of thing? Shit, I don’t care, I’d still do it.” 

Peter tried to listen to her, but that was Papa on the screen walking towards a building he’s about to bomb. The goddamn UN of all places. Where Tony was this morning. Where a lot of people were this morning. And Peter knew that he didn’t want them to sign those Accords, but why? Was it enough to tear a building to the ground murder everyone inside? Was it even Papa who did it? Did Steve know, too? 

They showed the picture again. It was blurry, but it was Papa. They wouldn’t reveal his name but they were showing his face again and again and _again_. 

Peter doesn’t think he’ll be sick, he _doesn’t_. There’s not even bile building in his mouth. 

But suddenly they show a man, a prince, holding the corpse of his father and sobbing into his dead, dead chest. Ash and rubble scattered their hair like stars. 

Peter pushed away from the table and vomited all over his jeans. 

***

They let him out to wash up in the bathroom. They gave him stiff sweatpants and an old jacket to change into, but he had to throw his jeans away. The generic hand soap pumped from the dispenser smelt as acidic as his vomit, but at least he was clean. 

The bathroom looked like something from _Men in Black_. It was all steel, cold, and sterile, but there was something sickly in the air. There was a hint of disinfectant spray that stung his nose when he breathed in. 

He gripped the sides of the sink in a too-tight grip. The metal began to give under his fingers. 

His eyes were already burning and he didn’t think it was from the air at all. 

They were burning because Steve and Bucky left. They just left. They left without saying goodbye and brought down the entire UN with them. 

Only maybe they didn’t because that wasn’t the parents Peter knew. His papa was the one who put an hour aside every Saturday, his one day off, to comb through Kukla’s hair so it wouldn’t mat. He woke up early to make Peter’s eggs and lunch even though Peter should be doing that for himself. 

Papa was the one who Peter would come to on nights where he just couldn’t sleep. When he was maybe eleven or twelve, Peter would stomp out of his room far past his bedtime and on the verge of tears to cry, “I can’t sleep!” 

Papa would sigh goodnaturedly and scootch over to make room from Peter on the couch. He’d wave him over and say, “Alright, come ‘ere. I wasn’t going to bed anytime soon, anyway.” and he’d rub Peter’s back while they watched _Jeopardy_ until Peter just couldn’t keep his eyes open anymore. 

And Steve, well Steve was the one who gave Peter sound advice and folded laundry while encouraging Peter to give him a rundown of his day. He was the one who drew Peter pictures of dogs and birds and rocket ships just to get him to smile. He loved doing the dishes and dusting and fighting for what was right. 

They were the ones who laughed at each other's bad jokes and listened to old music on Steve’s record player and to Peter rambled about _Star Wars_ and physics and girls and bad dreams. 

They weren’t the ones who blew up the UN. Papa wasn’t the one who blew up the UN. It just wouldn’t make any sense. 

Sure, Papa wasn’t pure. His slate wasn’t clean. He had no list of people that he killed because there were too many to put down. 

But Peter had killed, too. And Peter wouldn’t—

He couldn’t—

Not now. Not after everything. 

Except, with his addiction to helping those in need, he never really cared if he had to hurt someone along the way. At first, he didn’t like to hurt them. He always tried not to, only using violence as a last resort. 

But now, now he’d...but that doesn’t make him...but he doesn’t care if…

What if Papa was the same? 

There was a building in Peter’s throat that wasn’t bile. It rose and rose and rose until—

He hunched over the steel sink and wept. He cupped his hands over his mouth to muffle the sound. He tried to take deep breaths. He tried to rationalize his thoughts that zapped all over his mind. 

He couldn’t stop. 

He couldn’t because this was all his fault. 

***

Two large men in clean suits who didn’t smile questioned him for five hours. Tony insisted on his lawyer being present. Peter, being a minor and all, also needed a parent there. May subbed in just fine. It’s not like she didn’t have the experience. 

When he came back to the room, clean, clammy and shaky, they made him sit in the now sanitized metal seat between May and the expensive-looking lawyer. 

The two large men asked him where his dad was that morning. If he heard any suspicious phone calls. If his dad spent any time overseas in the last year. If his father and Captain America ever talked about the Accords. 

The expensive lawyer cut in whenever he could. Telling them they couldn’t ask that question or advising Peter not to answer this. And when Peter had to answer, he lied. Well, he didn’t lie. He just stated the simplest fact of all; he didn’t know. 

The only thing he really lied about was his father’s whereabouts that morning. He said he made him breakfast, scrambled eggs and orange juice, the same as any morning. 

“Mr. Parker,” the bigger, sterner agent sighed and rubbed his forehead, “we have video evidence that shows your father leaving the apartment at two in the morning.” 

“Did you have a warrant to film Mr. Barnes and Mr. Parker?” the expensive lawyer quipped. 

“Of course. We can show it to you if you’d like.” The large one answer in faux politeness. He then turned pointedly to Peter. 

“Huh,” Peter went as if it had been punched right out of him. So they were being watched. How long had it been since Peter felt eyes on the back of his neck? How long had this gone unnoticed? Surely, Papa would’ve seen something. 

On top of that, Peter was left to wonder why his father would leave so early if it weren’t to do something terrible? It mustn’t have still been about Peter or the fight. Or maybe it was? Or maybe it wasn’t. 

He really didn’t know anything. 

Peter swallowed, “I was probably thinking of breakfast yesterday.” 

“Relax, Mr. Parker,” the other, calmer agent grumbled when he saw Peter’s hands shake on the table, “we’ve only been keeping tabs on the two of you for about a week. It was for your own safety, I assure you.” 

Peter's lips pressed in a tight smile that couldn’t have looked anything of the sort. He stared at the metal table. He nodded once. 

He couldn’t have felt less placated. Even May had gone suspiciously silent. 

After a long while, the two agents packed their files into their briefcases and left unsatisfied. The lawyer stood with them, but lingered behind to speak with May about the actions Peter should be taking. He shook May’s hand then held his out for Peter, only Peter stared ahead and didn’t notice the hand at all. 

The lawyer gave May a squeezed, awkward smile and left the room. 

“I’m sure there’s a logical reason for all this,” May murmured to herself when the door slammed shut. 

Peter laid his head on the table and crossed his arms over the back of his neck. At least that way the eyes would stay away. 

***

“Jesus, if I have to deal with one more monkey in a suit, I’ll lose it,” Mr. Stark claimed as he threw open the interrogation room door and tossed a briefcase on the table. It landed with a clang, comparable to a gunshot, but Peter didn’t flinch. May, however, did. 

She jolted, blinked then asked, “You flew in?” 

“I did. Unfortunately, the FBI has a strict policy on Skype calls. You look great, as always.” 

“Thanks,” she responded emptily, “how was Germany?” 

Mr. Stark waved his hand, “Oh you know. Beautiful. Charming. Nice people. Too much schnitzel.” 

“It’s just too bad, you know,” May croaked, finally breaking the casual facade. Her eyes were dusty red and her nose scrunched up, “I can’t believe that happened while you all were there. It’s just awful.” 

Mr. Stark flushed. He tucked his hands into his pocket and looked at the ground. He nodded stiffly and mumbled, “Sure is.” 

He took a deep breath and unfolded himself. May wiped at her eyes and blinked the remaining tears away. They pieced themselves together, slapping their masks back on so Peter wouldn’t notice. 

Mr. Stark turned to Peter then. Peter kept staring forward, eyes wide and face pale and sickly. 

Mr. Stark leaned forward and pressed his palms against the metal table. He looked at Peter’s face even though Peter still stared like a machine at the wall. 

“Pete,” Mr. Stark started softly, perhaps the softest Peter had ever heard him speak, “I know this is hard, but if you have any information on where your dad might be, now would be the time to share it.” 

Peter couldn’t hear the noise from outside the room. He could hear May’s chair creak as she shifted. Mr. Stark’s shoes scuff on the ground. There was some kind of buzzer going off in a far building. Maybe a microwave or an air raid alarm. 

“I don’t know,” Peter whispered. His voice shook and broke and his throat was incredibly dry, “They didn’t tell me. They wouldn’t tell me anything.” 

Mr. Stark nodded. May rubbed her hand between Peter’s shoulder blades and he wanted to shrug her away so bad and yell at her to stop touching him, stop babying him, stop talking about him like he wasn’t in the room. Only he didn’t because May didn’t deserve that. So he sucked it up and told himself to breathe. 

In and out. Slowly. Steady. Ten seconds in. Five seconds out. He’d work himself into a panic if he kept breathing and thinking that way. 

Mr. Stark picked at his lip and said, “I’m not telling you what to do. I can’t. You can do whatever you want and I’d understand, alright. But you should know that people pick sides for things like this.” 

Peter blinked and stopped his hard work on the steady breathing to look up at Mr. Stark. 

“People pick sides. Your dad and Steve picked theirs,” Mr. Stark paused, dropped his hand and exhaled, “They picked theirs and you’re going to have to pick yours.” 

***

It was late when they got back. Really late. 

The plane ride was only an hour, but May insisted on getting sandwiches from Delmar’s before they picked Kukla up from the tower. 

“It’ll be like old times,” she insisted, smile soft but still causing her eyes to wrinkle. 

It was that moment Peter realized just how lonely she was. 

Their relationship was one of the sacrifices he made in the last year. His daily calls tapered off to once a month and he usually found excuses to ditch family dinners. He didn’t know what was happening on _The Real Housewives_ anymore or how her new job was going. 

So he let her drag him to get sandwiches and gummy candies like he was ten again. He didn’t talk much, but neither did she. 

She didn’t fluster at Delmar’s flirtations nor did she hum and haw at the various choices of deli meats and cheeses she could choose from. 

They paid in silence. They ate in silence. They walked home in silence. 

By the time they made it back to her apartment after stopping to get Kukla on the way, the only sound that came between the two of them was their breathing and Kukla’s leash swooshing. 

Peter held his breath as she unlocked the door. Even though he’d been over a couple of weeks back, there was the strange suspicion that something new was waiting behind the door. 

Her apartment never changed. When she opened the door and guided Peter and Kukla inside, Peter felt like he was stepping five years into the past. 

There was the couch he studied for math tests on or curled into during dark days. There was the bathroom he learned to brush his teeth and take a shower in. There was the bedroom he’d host sleepovers, eat snacks or lock himself in when everything got too loud, too bright, too warm, too real. 

“We should rent a movie,” May proclaimed with a clap of her hands and a plastered on a smile.

“May,” Peter exhaled and closed his eyes. He slumped back against the door. 

She was already heading towards the living room.

“It’ll be like old times,” she smiled and dug through her couch for the remote. 

“May,” Peter said again, a little louder. He opened his eyes and pushed himself away from the door. 

“I’ll make some popcorn,” she continued as if Peter hadn’t spoken at all. She found the remote under the middle cushion and turned on the T.V. 

“May.” 

“We can make a pillow fort.” 

“It’s okay!” Peter snapped, but weakened his approach when her face fell, “I’m just...I’m really tired. I think I’m just gonna head to bed.” 

“Oh,” she stopped suddenly as if stung. She placed the remote on the coffee table and nodded, “That’s okay.” 

“It’s just been a long day.”

“No need to explain yourself. You need your rest.” 

“Yeah, I’ll just,” Peter pointed towards his old room. His old room that was Ben’s old office. Now it’s just for storage. 

It didn’t look much different, given all the time that passed. His old mattress laid on the ground and his old comforter still covered it. The walls were empty, the desk was gone and there were cardboard boxes, old board games and knick-knacks that needed a new home. Still, for some reason, it didn’t feel any different. 

Peter paused in the doorway and looked back at May, who was still putzing around in the living room, “Thank you, May, really.”

She scoffed and waved her hand, “You’re always welcome here. No matter what. Even if you just need space from your parents for a few days. This is still your home.” 

Peter sniffed and nodded. He didn’t think he could get through another thank you without crying, so he turned and walked into the room. He closed the door when Kukla made it in behind him. 

***

He was in bed when it happened. 

He was curled up, face washed, teeth brushed and lights off when his phone lit up. Kukla jolted awake at the brightness. It was a soft beacon in the room, barely bright enough to make him squint as he rolled over to check the notification. 

_from: unknown number_

_Б sniper река dodger 4 уже 9 leftwing pineapple 6_

It was nonsense. None of those should have made sense with the others. Only, the thing is that they did. 

Years ago, when Peter was eleven and still stood on chairs to grab cups from the highest cabinet, Papa and Steve sat him at the dinner table with a piece of paper and a dull pencil and said, “Just in case.” 

It was a code. One no one else on Earth would know because Peter came up with most of it himself. He laughed when he wrote them. He grinned drawing the line from Б to safe, 4 to lies and left-wing to stay. 

It was just a game. A silly, stupid child game that even Papa laughed at because it wasn’t like they would need it. Papa still made Peter practice it with him at the table every night after dinner, “just in case.” 

And there it was. Б, Papa was safe. Dodger, he was with Steve. 4, someone was lying. Уже, people were after them. Left-wing, Peter needed to stay there. Pineapple, he needed to stay with May. 6, he needed to respond to show he got the message. 

The rest was just fluff, extra words to trick anyone tracking their phones into a wild goose chase. 

It was from a burner phone. It had to be. That was another part of the plan. If Peter didn’t respond soon, he wouldn’t get another chance. Papa would discard it soon enough. 

Peter fidgeted with his phone, twirled it between his fingers, tapped it against his palm, locked and unlocked it. 

Kukla whined and batted at his hands with her paw. 

_People pick sides in things like this._

He read the message one more time. Flipped the phone over. Read it again. 

_You’re going to have to pick yours._

It was a horrible decision to ask a son to make. Whether to trust blood or friendship. To belong or be abandoned. To swim or be thrown in the ocean with his father to drown. 

One last read of the message and he made his decision.

He flicked his phone off, put it back on the nightstand and went to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry it took me longer to post this one! i was stupid and instead of waiting until summer to post this story, i decided to post it during the midst of end-of-the-school-year craziness. i also took on two jobs this summer and i need to study for my graduate tests AND im working on a story for the big bang. because of that, this story will be on a tentative two-week update schedule just to keep me on track. it might take less than two weeks to update, it might take more. but once summer starts i'll have a little bit more wiggle room.
> 
> thank you guys for your patience and support! the comments from the last chapter were amazing and i promise this story's not going to be so dramatic for so long. 
> 
> thanks again!  
> -emily


	4. Chapter 4

**Bucharest, Romania**

“The barriers?” 

_“Compromised.”_

“The roof?” 

_“Covered.”_

“And outside?” 

_“Completely surrounded. Cap, it might be time to throw in the towel.”_

“Shit.” Steve hissed, ripping his hand from his earpiece. His uniform was starting to itch and his BDUs were always prickly. It didn’t help Bucky was shaking the table with all that leg bouncing. Steve also hadn’t changed since the UN bombing. 

He shot up from his chair and stalked towards the newspaper covered windows. The apartment smelled of mothballs and lead paint and no one was supposed to know about it. 

“Any word from Pete?” Steve asked. 

Bucky, with his face sullen and little flushed, shook his head as he typed furiously on his phone. 

“No,” he grumbled. 

“I’m sure he’s fine.” 

“You can’t know that.” 

“No, but is it a crime to be hopeful?” 

Bucky didn’t respond. He fumbled with his phone a bit more before yelling, “Fuck!” and slamming it on the table. He ducked his head into his hands, pushed his hair back and hissed, “We’re fucking screwed. Told you, you should’ve stayed back with him. This all would’ve blown over without you sticking your nose in it.” 

“I’m not sticking my nose in anything,” Steve snipped and looked down towards the street. Guards flooded into the building like ants, “This mess is just as much mine as it is yours, Buck. You agreed to that when you signed our marriage license. And I’m finding that son of a bitch who pinned this on you, I swear to God.” 

“Yeah, sure you will, punk,” Bucky huffed, “but right now we got to deal with a thousand pissed Krauts trying to kill us.” 

Steve cracked a smile and looked over his shoulder, “It’ll be just like old times then.” 

_“Breach! Breach!”_

Steve’s knees hit the ground first, then his chest and ribs when Bucky jumped to cover him. The first bomb whistled through the air like firecrackers. 

***

Peter woke with a raw stomach that morning. His eyes itched something awful and gunk nearly sealed them closed. 

He was exhausted. Guilt clawed at him in the night and it led to a fitful sleep. He was so tired he couldn’t even justify not responding anymore. 

***

May made him eat breakfast. May did not make him go to school. 

Peter waved her off and said he’d be just fine. 

“I have a research paper due next week anyway,” he explained lamely, “and my physics professor is playing _Interstellar_ in class today. Can’t miss that.” 

He honestly thought it would be fine. He really did, until he got there. 

***

Mr. Petit played the video in class. He grinned at the projector screen and placed his hands on his hips. 

“This is history, boys and girls. History in the making.” 

A robotic news anchor voiced over a clip of Papa and Steve at gunpoint in the middle of a German freeway. They made Papa got to his knees. Steve held a single hand out in front of his as if that was protection. 

_“Captain America and an unknown terrorist have been taken into custody. Reports link Captain America with this man during the time of the bombing. More information to come.”_

They didn’t say Papa’s name and the picture was blurry. 

Papa made a point to keep a low profile after the ‘Captain America is gay’ announcement. He didn’t come to much of Peter’s meets and games, but he had Steve record each one. Even so, who in high school knew what each other's’ parents looked like? 

But Ned knew. And Ned turned to Peter and asked, “Isn’t that your -” 

“Shut up, Ned,” Peter hissed and ducked his head to scribble random notes in his binder. 

It didn’t matter though. Everyone was already staring at him. 

***

They stopped playing Captain America videos during class. 

***

No one stopped staring. They parted ways like the Red Sea when Peter walked down the halls. They whispered into each other’s ears and pointed at him in class. 

Even Ned was acting a little different. His jokes seemed forced and his smile fell too easily. 

And Peter tried to ignore it. He did. He did, it was just. 

It was really hard. 

***

He hasn’t gone out at night since. It didn’t feel right. He wasn’t helping anybody. He wasn’t saving anyone. 

He still couldn’t sleep too well. He couldn’t focus on his homework. He couldn’t study for tests. He couldn’t talk to his friends. 

He was still doing exactly the same. He wasn’t getting any better. 

If he looked at his hands in a certain light, usually in the dark or when his eyes burned so bad he couldn’t keep them open, they were blood red. 

_Funny_ , he’d think, _funny the blood hasn’t washed off yet_. 

***

“If you tell me it wasn’t my fault one more time, I’m never coming back here.” 

It Dr. Kafka stopped mid-sentence. Her mouth was open, formed around the next word that never came. 

Peter glared out the window with his arms crossed so tight his fingers were going numb. He sucked and chewed on the bottom corner of his lip until it bled. 

“Okay,” Dr. Kafka said carefully, “then why don’t you tell me why you think it's your fault?” 

“I don’t.”

“But you said -”

“I didn’t,” Peter huffed and flopped his head back against the couch, “I never said it was my fault. I just -”

 _Didn’t want him to leave_ sat on his tongue. As did, _I should’ve texted him back_ and _why didn’t he just take me with him?_ and _I can’t figure out if he really did it and that’s what scares me the most only I can’t tell anyone or they’ll think he’s guilty_ and _what gives him the right to be so pissed at me for putting my life in danger but then he goes off to get chased by a thousand people who want him dead_ and _if I just talked to him about everything that was going on then maybe we wouldn’t have gotten into that fight and he would’ve at least said goodbye this time._

In the end, all he could admit was, “I just want things to go back to normal.” 

***

“Hey Penis Parker,” Flash called out with a grin in the crowded hallway one morning. 

The entire hallway halted. Chatter and shoes scuffing and lockers slamming all stopped. 

Peter did, too. He froze in place with shoulders hunched up like a pissed-off cat and he kept his gaze at the scuffed up ground. 

“How does your dad feel now that Captain America’s screwing around with some terrorist?” 

Peter wished he was stronger. Strong as he was when he was nine and could hold people down by their throat and dig knives into their bellies and keep his face wiped clean of emotion when the trainer screamed spittle into his face. 

He wished he could turn around and just tell Flash to _just shut the fuck up_ and maybe _you don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about you privileged little shit!_ and _if you only knew, if you only_ knew _about half the stuff I’ve done, about the stuff they did to me, then you’d keep your stupid mouth shut._

But he stomped toward the entrance instead. 

“Peter!” Ned called, but he just kept stomping, kept charging, kept marching.

Ned jogged after him, the keyrings on his bag clinking and clanking as he did. 

Peter made a run for it. His bag swished and swayed and nearly fell off his shoulders. 

“No running!” the guard sat by the front entrance called. He was a gruff old man who used to give Peter candy when he sat outside the office maybe halfway through the school day. There’d be tears tracking down Peter’s face and his whole body was shaking while he waited for May or his dad to pick him up. 

_“Rough day?” the guard would ask in his trembling, raspy old voice. He’d stick his hand out, a jolly rancher or a caramel between two fingers._

_Peter would wipe his nose on his sleeve before grabbing it and say “I have a lot of them.”_

Peter didn’t think of that when he shoved open the front doors and sprinted out. The old guard screamed, “Hey!” but he was far too slow to catch up. 

And Peter ran and ran and ran until his legs nearly gave out. He made it all the way to Central Park before he stumbled to a tree, hunched over and heaved for air. 

He hated this. He _hated_ it. He couldn’t stand that this is what got to him now. One bully could say one wrong thing and suddenly Peter was the one running away. He never used to run before, at least not away. 

Flash and his senseless comments and Papa and his selfish decisions were tearing Peter to shreds, like children pulling at a rag doll’s strings. They pull and they pull until the doll unwinds into a pile of yarn and buttons. Not even the clothes can be salvaged. 

He reeled his arm back and punched the tree. The trunk gave, a large dent grew inside it. Birds scurried and screamed at the jolt. Leaves fell into Peter’s hair. Bark shook and peeled to the ground. 

Peter growled and punched it again. He kicked it. And kicked it. And punched it again. 

He hit it and hit it and hit it until his knuckles were ripped and bleeding through the cracks of his hands, until his toes throbbed and ached, and then he kept going. 

His anger was white-hot. It was pressing his palm on the electric burner while it was fluorescent red. It was putting his head in an oven. It was holding ignited thermite in his hands and watching it burn. 

And the thing was, he wasn’t even that upset at Flash’s joke. Not really. It just was that really what his dad was now? Is that how people see him? 

A terrorist? A murderer? Is that what Peter was? Is? 

He just wants him to come home. He wants his normal family without superpowers or therapy or medicine or Spider-Mans or accords. He just wants to feel happy. To be happy without feeling like he had to earn it. 

He wanted his dad. He wanted to go back. He wanted to punch Bucky and Steve in the face and then squeeze them so tight that they couldn’t leave him again. 

He didn’t know what he wanted and he hated that the most. 

***

There were times Peter hated himself. Where he found himself missing it. Where he found himself wishing he could go back. 

Back to simpler times. Times where there was no yes or no, just do. 

Times where it was only him and Papa and guards and girls with no names. The times where Peter knew where he was sleeping, what he was eating, what he was doing. When he fell, he knew Papa would be there to pick him up and press scratchy kisses on his cheek. When he failed, he knew the punishment would be swift and painful. 

He knew those walls. He knew those rules. He knew those faces. 

And even now with everything he’d gone through, with meeting Ned and Liz and May and Tony and getting to play and having a dog and choosing his own meals, he was ungrateful. 

He hated himself because he missed it. He _missed_ it. He really, really missed it. 

***

Dusk had fallen and Peter was still in the park. 

His head was tucked between his knees when he heard the tell-tale sound of Kukla’s leash.

“Pete?” May’s soft voice cracked the silent air. It grew harder as she stepped closer, “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. I called five police stations trying to find you. Five.” 

“I’m sorry,” Peter croaked without looking up.

She faltered at the rawness of his voice. She softened her approach and asked, “Are you okay?” 

Peter sniffed and sat up. He looked up at her and she looked down at him. There was a little crease between her brows. Her glasses were smudged and her hair was too windblown to be purposeful. 

“Yeah,” Peter spoke, his voice breaking as he scrubbed his palms down his face, “Yeah, I’m just upset, you know?” 

May gave him a soft smile and crouched beside him, “I know.” 

“I tried really hard to do good, you know? But I just,” he wrinkled his nose and waved his hand, “messed it all up.” 

He sniffed harder and groaned, wiping harshly at his eyes. With a voice thick with mucus, he croaked, “God and I am so tired of crying!” 

May rubbed between his shoulder blades and looked out at the big park. There was a trio of skateboarders and an old man walking his dog. Some kids were yelling in the distance. 

“I get it, Pete,” May whispered, still rubbing his back, “There comes a point where you think you just can’t cry anymore. All the tears must’ve run out and then, boom, you’re crying all over again.” 

Peter leaned into May’s side and mumbled, “I wanna go home.” 

She nodded, helped him up and said, “Then let’s go home.” 

But she brought him back to her apartment. 

***

So instead anymore asking why Peter ran out of school before first period or telling Flash he shouldn’t make jokes about his classmate’s life that was falling to pieces, Peter gets detention for ditching. 

It turned out to be the only good thing that happened to him that week. 

Coach Wilson left after he read his script. Seymour was that week’s designated hall monitor. He anxiously asked kids to stop talking and stumbled about to get others to stop throwing paper. He didn’t even notice when Peter laid his head on his desk. 

The video played this time was a nature documentary about a rare ant found in Malaysia. The droning narration put three kids to sleep while another group chattered and laughed through the whole thing.

“No talking!” Seymour squeaked. 

Michelle nudged Peter’s side halfway through. He lulled his head towards her. She lifted up her notebook to show him a doodle of himself moping. A storm cloud was placed over his head. 

He dragged his eyes from the book to her face. She mocked a pout to replicate his. 

Despite himself, Peter smiles. 

Because it was the first time since this whole mess that someone acted normal. 

***

Ned blissfully walked the hallways, thinking a mixture of his Harriet Tubman essay and the last episode of _Criminal Minds_ he watched with his mom when someone yanked him into the janitor’s closet and slammed the door. 

“Eep!” 

“Shh!” 

There was barely a stream of light filtering into the room from the crack in the door and yet Peter’s eyes were so wide they glowed. His hands were a little shaky. 

“Peter?” Ned gasped, clutching a hand against his chest. 

“My dad’s not a terrorist,” Peter stated. His voice was shaky, too. 

“What?” 

“He’s not.” 

“Peter,” Ned sighed, “Is everything okay? You’re really starting to scare me.” 

A mop head kept brushing the front of Ned’s face. He batted it away, but it only shifted for a moment before falling back. 

“Yeah, I just, I know you saw the news,” Peter explained in a hushed tone. He’s glancing at the door as if someone was standing right there listening in. He continued, “I don’t know what you were thinking, but he’s not okay? It’s just…”

He paused. 

There was something dripping in the back corner of the closet. The linoleum floor was tacky and every time one of them shifted, it sounded like package tape being ripped up. 

“It’s complicated,” he decided with a shrug. 

“Okaay,” Ned dragged out, trying to understand what was going on and why Peter was talking to him in a closet instead of walking with him to lunch, “but why was he at the UN?” 

Peter’s eyes darted to the floor as he went and rubbed the back of his neck, “I don’t really know. But you know Zuko? From _The Last Airbender_?” 

“Yeah?” 

“Well, my dad’s kinda like that,” Peter explained. 

Ned’s eyes squinted as he sputtered, “What are you talking about?” 

“Well, like,” Peter’s shoulders sagged down and he tapped the shelves behind him as he thought for the right way to answer. Finally, he turned back to Ned and said, “okay, you know how at first we thought Zuko was the villain? And we didn’t get why he was so stuck on getting Aang?” 

“Sure. It wasn’t until like the end of book one when we find out it’s because of his dad.” 

“Yeah!” Peter cheered, raising his arms out, “we think he’s the bad guy until suddenly he just isn’t anymore. His dad is. Zuko was on some mission that he didn’t plan but after a while, he started to think he was in on it the whole time. But his dad burnt half his face in order for him to play along with it. That wasn’t on Zuko. He was abused. And, you know, forced to do something he didn’t want to. The same thing happened to my dad.” 

When Peter finished his explanation, he nodded at Ned as if he thought Ned just understood. 

Ned nodded too, and asked, “Someone made your dad blow up the UN?” 

“Nooo,” Peter groaned and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, “I’m talking about something _before_ the UN. Something that might have caused someone _else_ to blow up the UN. Because of something my dad had to do a long time ago.” 

Ned tilted his head and thought for a minute, lips pursed and eyes squinted. Finally, he shook his head. 

“I don’t think I follow.” 

Peter’s head fell back as he groaned.

“I’m sorry Peter,” Ned apologized sincerely, “I wish I got it.” 

“It’s fine.” 

“You wanna go to lunch now? I’ll trade you my Cheetos for your apple sauce.” 

“May doesn’t have apple sauce,” Peter grumbled and pushed away from the shelf, “but I’ll give you Oreos for your Chips Ahoy.” 

“Really?” 

Peter nodded and opened the door only Ned was trying to get out too and they both ended up stumbling on the door frame and nearly face planting in the hallway. 

Instead, they bumped right into Principal Mortia, who was snacking away on a chicken salad sandwich. Ned jostled his arm enough that some bits of lettuce and mayonnaise fell onto his shirt. 

Principal Mortia looked slowly from his shirt to the two boys standing in front of him. Two boys that he just saw stumble out of the janitor's closet when they should very much be in the cafeteria. 

Both of them stared in horror at the stain on their principal’s shirt until said principal drawled, “Gentlemen?” 

Their eyes snapped up to his face. 

Principal Mortia cleared his throat and wiped at the stain, “shouldn’t you be eating lunch instead of hiding in a closet?” 

Neither of them gave an answer. They just fumbled out apologies and sprinted down the hall. 

Principal Mortia watched their quickly retreating forms and sighed. He stared back at the quarter size stain on his new shirt his wife just bought him and sighed again, “As you were gentlemen. As you were.” 

***

“Peter!” a friendly voice called while Peter was digging through his locker. He twisted over his shoulder and froze. 

Liz waved at him from across the hall. She beamed and jogged over to him. 

“Hey!” she greeted and pulled him into an awkward one arm hug. She was warm and comfortable but Peter was stiff. He barely registered that he should be hugging her back when she pulled away. 

“Hey Liz,” he sputtered, fiddling with the strap of his backpack. 

“Sooo,” she dragged, bouncing on the balls of her feet, “you're still coming to my party tomorrow right? I really want you to go.” 

Peter paused, stumbling over consonants before stuttering, “I’m still invited?” 

Liz giggled and said, “Of course! Why wouldn’t you be?” 

Peter flushed, redder than a burn, and responded with, “I guess...I don’t know.” 

“But you’re coming right?” 

Peter nodded too quickly and for too long, “Yeah. Yeah, I wouldn’t miss it.” 

***

Lights shut off with a clang. Red strobes replaced them. They reflected the glass walls of the portable prison. 

“What the hell is this?” 

“Why don’t we discuss your home?” a voice with a slight accent woven through suggested, “Not Romania. Certainly not Brooklyn. No, your real home.” 

Greedy hands lifted a book filled with a thousand electric volts. 

“You have a son, no?” the voice continued. 

“No.” 

“Really? I have seen videos, Soldat. A cute little boy,” pause. The man looked down at the book, “Why would the infamous Winter Soldier care about such a thing? Unless, of course, the boy knew this, too.” 

The man gestured towards the red book.

Trapped in the glass box, Bucky didn’t answer. Lights flashed over his face, turning it from red to black. It was void of emotion, but he swallowed once. 

“Tell me, Soldat,” the greedy man sneered, “that little boy, is that really where the rest of that serum went?” 

***

 _“Should I wear my hat?”_ Ned’s voice crackled through Peter’s speakerphone left propped against a dented cardboard box filled with May’s old winter wear. 

“I don’t know if it’s one of those kinds of parties, Ned,” Peter responded, forehead wrinkled in concentration as he dug through his suitcase for something to wear. Old considerations were left laying behind him and definite no’s were cast to the side. 

“What other parties are there?” 

Peter groaned and tilted his head back before calling out, “ _Liz’s_ parties, Ned!” 

“Ooh,” Ned drawled, then perked up with, “I’ll still wear it.” 

“Ned!” 

“It gives me confidence!” Ned retorted, “and why wouldn’t Liz let me wear my hat?” 

“Fine! Wear the hat!” Peter snapped, chucking a bright orange gymnastics shirt he used for pajamas at the wall. It went splat against it before unimpressively dropping to the floor in a crumpled heap. 

“What are you gonna wear?” Ned asked, completely and happily ignorant of Peter’s cranky attitude. 

“I don’t know,” Peter whined and fell backward, legs still tucked by his sides but his back on the floor. His arms were flailed out above him as he continued with, “None of my clothes are cool enough.” 

“What?!” Ned gasped, genuinely aghast, “your clothes are awesome!” 

“No, they’re not,” Peter pouted, “Steve buys all my clothes.”

“Uh, your Millennium Falcon shirt?” 

“Was found in the kids' section!” 

“You rainbow cat socks?” 

“Are only to be worn ironically!” 

“ _Your_ hat?” 

Peter growled and shot up before twisting towards his phone and snapping, “Ned!” 

“Just wear something blue!” Ned laughed good-naturedly, “it brings out your eyes.” 

Peter suspiciously lifted the first blue shirt in his line of sight. It was a plaid button-up Steve got him for an award banquet last spring. 

“It does?” Peter asked. 

“Yeah!” Ned assured. Suddenly, another voice could be heard through the phone, Ned’s mom calling him for dinner, “Okay! - Hey Pete, I’ll see you in an hour, okay? May’s still driving us right?” 

“Yup,” Peter said, already buttoning up the shirt, “see you in an hour.” 

***

May’s car breaks shrieked like children when she pulled in front of Liz’s house. She and Ned chatted while Peter chewed his thumbnail and scanned the people in attendance. 

“Ned, some hats wear men, but you wear that hat,” May assured. 

Ned beamed, “it gives me confidence.” 

Peter rolled his eyes and popped the door open. 

“Bye May!” He called over his shoulder, but he didn’t make it very far before she reached over the center console and pulled him by the back of his shirt into the car. 

“Hey, hey, hey, wait!” May scolded. 

Peter huffed and rolled his head back towards her. 

“Look, I know its hard with everything you're going through, the changes your body is making, but that doesn’t mean you have to blow me off to look cool,” May insisted sternly. Ned shook his head in agreement. 

“Okaay,” He groaned and gave her an awkward side hug in her cramped car. He pulled away just as quick and hopped back out with, “Bye May. Love you!” 

“Bye May!” Ned echoed, already out of the car. 

“Have fun!” she said, waving them bye one last time before driving away. 

The two turned towards the house, already vibrating with loud music and teenage laughter. 

Peter’s ears felt like they were bleeding. He subconsciously rubbed at one with a pained expression. 

“This is gonna be so much fun!” Ned cheered, bounding up the steps and letting himself in.

Peter stepped behind him into a John Hughes movie. There were kids dancing. Everyone held red solo cups. The lights were dimmed low and the entire house smelled of pizza. 

Peter anxiously gazed around the room, spotting the nearest exits and potential blind spots. He never cared for the dark and when it was mixed with blaring loud music, it felt like he was drowning. 

“I can’t believe you guys are at this dumb party,” Michelle drowned from beside them. 

Peter looked over at her and raised an eyebrow. He wanted to ask _“do you follow us?”_ , but Ned spoke first. 

“But you’re at this party?” 

Michelle smirked, “Am I?” With that, she walked away to stand with no one. 

Ned and Peter shot each other the same confused look. Ned shrugged and went to step in deeper when someone else stopped them. 

“You came!” Liz grinned rushing over towards them, “I’m so happy to see you. Nice hat, Ned!” 

“What a great party,” Peter stuttered, voice squeaking. Ned elbowed his ribs. 

“Thanks!” Liz said, smile getting bigger. Someone called for her deeper in the house and she turned towards them to signal that she’d be over in a minute before turning back to say, “I have to help my friend with something, but make yourselves feel at home, alright? There’s pizza and drinks in the kitchen.” 

“Thanks, Liz!” Ned said. 

Peter’s thanks got caught in his throat as she walked away. 

Everything went okay for approximately twenty minutes. Peter drank punch and hugged the corners. Ned danced even though no one else did. A kid puffed up like the Michelin Man who went to Midtown on a full ride for football broke a fancy lamp. 

Everything went okay until the screen playing MTV’s greatest hits shown red with a breaking news banner. 

The music scratched. The chattering stopped. The smiles faded. 

The screen flashed to a clear mugshot of Papa. His eyes were empty but his face was stern. It was the same face he adorned when masked as the soldier. It was a face Peter hadn’t seen in years. 

“Steve Rogers has escaped custody, releasing notorious assassin _The Winter Soldier_ formally thought of as the deceased James Buchanan Barnes. Barnes is suspected to be the man Steve Rogers married last year. If you have any information about these two, please call the number listed on your screens. More updates are to come.” 

Every student stared at the screen, mouths open like dead fish and eyes like marbles. Slowly, and in sync, they turned towards Peter with their fish mouths and glass eyes. No one blinked, no one breathed. 

Peter couldn’t tear his eyes away from his father’s mugshot. His hollow glare, the kind he gave Peter when he was small when he knew he should be mad at something Peter did but couldn’t find it in him to actually be upset, pierced through the screen. It made fire ants crawl and gnaw on Peter’s skin. It put a stop on his heart and his brain. 

It was silent and everyone stared. 

Everyone stared until Flash, without even an ounce of humor or jest, asked him, “Peter, is that terrorist your _dad?_?” 

“Uh,” was Peter’s response. That’s the only sound his heavy tongue felt it could formulate. Uh, said his tongue. 

“Uh?” Flash mocked, lips curved into a sneer, “I’m really asking, Parker, yes or no?” 

“Uh,” Peter repeated, panicked as he turned around the room. All the shocked faces. All the disgust. All the confusion. 

Liz just blinked and looked back at the T.V. and then towards Peter. Ned stared at Bucky’s mugshot, the same Bucky who ordered them pizza and let them stay up late to watch SNL and sometimes stayed up to watch and laugh with them. 

Michelle looked curious, eyeing Peter carefully as if scanning to find similarities between Peter and the terrorist on the news. 

Peter twisted to Ned, put a useless hand on his elbow and squeaked, “I’m sorry. I gotta—” 

Ned didn’t turn around, so Peter just fled. 

“Parker!” Flash called, voice stiff and angry. 

Peter kept going. He ran out of Liz’s house and then down the street. 

You see, running away is just what he did best. Maybe he really was his father’s son. 

***

“May!” Peter cried out, voice cracking as he slammed open the door and tore into her apartment, “May, my dad’s on the news. It’s bad, it’s—” 

He rounded the corner to the living room to find Tony sitting on the couch. 

May stood in front of him, hands out like she was in the middle of yelling at him but now she stared at Peter with her eyes and mouth wide. 

“Hey, Petey,” she greeted, “how was the party?” 

Peter didn’t answer. Tony twisted his torso and put his arm over the back of the couch. He raised his eyebrow at Peter as if he was the one who needed to explain. 

“Tony was just leaving,” May assured, smiling with gritted teeth. She snapped her head towards Tony to give him a pointed look, but it was ignored. 

“So Pete,” Tony started, “you pick a side yet?” 

Peter swallowed through a dry mouth. He looked helplessly at May, silently begging her to help him decide. She looked at the ground. Her nose was wrinkled and her hands were on her hips and she looked at the ground. 

Peter turned towards Tony and hissed, “No. You can’t make me do that.” 

Tony leaned back and blinked. His forehead crumpled like thick paper, “I can’t?” 

“No,” Peter continued, keeping his voice stern, “but I need to talk to him.” 

Tony smiled. He turned his cocky gaze towards May, acting like a victor of a strenuous competition. He twisted back to Peter to say, “I hope you like Germany.” 

***

There was a leak underwater. A steady drip, drip in a building to the side or maybe beneath the lake. 

“We got married at the kitchen table,” the hoarse voice croaked, “you used to wear newspapers in your shoes.” 

A smile, “You can’t read that in a museum.” 

A scoff, “Just like that was supposed to be cool?” 

“What did I do?” croaked the hoarse voice, apologetic before knowing his transgressions. 

“Enough.” was just a fact spoken regretfully. 

“Oh God, I _knew_ this would happen,” the hoarse voice spat, “everything Hydra put inside me is still there. All they gotta do is say the goddamn words.” 

“Who was he?” was asked softly. 

“I don’t know.” 

“People are dead,” sterner words that time. There was steel in those words, “The bombing, the setup. Our kid’s alone in New York and we have no idea if he’s okay. All that just to get five minutes with you. I need you to do better than ‘I don’t know’.” 

A pause. A drip, drip. Three different sets of breathing. 

“He knows about Peter.” Drip, drip, “he wanted to know how he grew up.” 

“Why would he need to know that?” 

An admission, “Because Peter got the last batch of the serum. If that guy gets his hands on him, he thinks he might be able to recreate it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i really don't know why this chapter was so hard to write. it was like a chore to finish it and i haven't felt that way about writing in so long. because of that, im afraid its not very good. in fact its a little disappointing for me. i feel like it should be better but there wasn't much changing i could do 
> 
> however!! the next few chapters i am very excited to write. all of my finals are done and im officially on summer break (thank god) so im going to say this lull was just because i was burnt out. hopefully it wont happen again because that sucked
> 
> thank you all for reading and for your comments and kudos on the last chapter! hopefully you arent too disapointed in this one lol but i can assure that the next ones will be better
> 
> thanks again!  
> -emily


	5. Chapter 5

**_Sat. 11:12 p.m. from: Ned_ **

hey. why didn’t you tell me about your dad???

**_Sun. 3:37 a.m. from: Ned_ **

im not mad! im honestly just confused. 

**_Mon. 9:43 a.m. from: Ned_ **

u don’t have to tell me anything. i got your homework from everyone and i was gonna drop it off at mays but ur not there. she seems worried. maybe u should call her

**_Mon: 12:56 p.m. from: Ned_**

i really dont want to annoy you but can u pls send something so i know ur alive. please I'm really worried!! 

***

Peter glanced at his phone on the forth buzz before turning it on airplane mode and tucking it into his pocket. He nestled into his too-soft seat and closed his eyes. 

He laid like that for a few moments until the need to respond overwhelmed him. He huffed and opened his eyes, pulling his phone out of his pocket to send a quick thumbs up before turning it off completely. 

“Everything okay, kid?” Mr. Stark asked, flicking his eyes over his handheld device. The device projected a series of photos and articles in front of him. 

“Yup,” Peter snapped, glaring out the window as he waited for the plane to take off. He shifted around a bit before grumbling, “I can’t sleep.” 

“Try closing your eyes,” Mr. Stark suggested without looking away from his reading. He flicked from article to article and picture to picture.

When the plane rattled into take-off, Peter tensed up like a pill bug that just got placed into the hand of a pudgy toddler. As it entered its smooth transition into cruising and the seat belt light flashed off, Peter exhaled. 

The air shifted into an uncomfortable silence. Peter continued his glare out the window, only now bouncing his knee and crossing his arms over him as he was desperate for them to land already. 

He closed his eyes, opened them, and closed them again while squirming this way and that in his seat, huffing and puffing the entire time because he just couldn’t settle down. 

Apparently, Mr. Stark grew tired of watching Peter pretend to try to sleep because he broke their silence with an unusual comment, “A big cat’s trying to kill your old man.” 

Peter opened one eye and squinted at Mr. Stark. “A what?” 

“Cat,” he repeated like he was answering what kind of pet he just got. 

Peter tilted his head and assessed Mr. Stark’s demeanor. When he couldn’t decide on what Mr. Stark’s angle was, he asked, “Are you joking or…?” 

“If only,” Mr. Stark mumbled. Then, he sighed dramatically and tossed his device aside, causing the articles to disappear along with it. 

“You ever heard of Wakanda?” he asked. 

“I think we talked about them in my econ class. Why?” 

Mr. Stark cleared his throat and crossed his legs before leaning forward slightly to explain, “Well, their prince—or king now, I guess—has taken to dressing up in a catsuit and chasing your dad through traffic in highly crowded tunnels in Germany.” 

Mr. Stark looked at Peter and blinked, and Peter looked at him and blinked. Their expressions were on different ends of the spectrum; Mr. Stark looked casual if not a little bored and Peter’s face was filled with absolute bewilderment. 

After a few minutes, Peter blinked again, looked out the window to process what he just heard before turning back to Mr. Stark and asking, “Do you mean, like, a fursuit?” 

“What? No. What?” Mr. Stark stumbled, scratching his head and mumbling to himself, “What the hell is a fursuit?” 

“Like a furry,” Peter clarified. “It’s not like that would make what you just said any weirder.” 

“Jesus Christ, kid,” Mr. Stark huffed and pinched the bridge of his nose. He dropped his hand and raised an eyebrow at Peter, “You’ve seen the news, right?” 

Peter nodded. 

“Well the king who died in the UN bombing had a son who is now the king,” Mr. Stark said, emphasizing every word as if he were speaking to a little kid. “He’s pretty mad at your dad so, as vengeance or whatever, he’s been wearing some suit made of Michelin tires and following your dad around to try to scratch him. He’s going to be in Germany, too, so I figured I’d give you a heads up.” 

Peter hummed and slumped back into his seat, brow still a little furrowed in confusion. He looked back at Mr. Stark and said, “I’m still confused. Why is he wearing—?”

“Don’t know, don’t care,” Mr. Stark dismissed with a wave of his hand. A second later, his eyes lit up as if a thought dawned on him. He looked at Peter with a grin, “Speaking of suits, yours is in the back.”

“My what?” Peter asked, shooting forward in his seat again with eyes suddenly as bright as the day he first found Mr. Stark’s lab. 

“Your suit,” Mr. Stark answered with a smirk. “You didn’t think I’d let you come to Germany with just a pair of pajamas, did you?” 

***

The suit was itchy and had its own version of F.R.I.D.A.Y. that Peter asked Mr. Stark to turn off for now. It was almost too easy to move in but it was also tight which made it uncomfortable enough for him to debate asking for his pajamas back. After deciding that it might be rude, Peter opted to struggle through wearing the new, too-tight costume. 

“It’s just a little tight. Gonna be hard to hit the landings, especially with like a back handspring—but it’s fine, Mr. Stark!” Peter assured as they stumbled out of the plane. 

They landed in Germany just past noon. With the time difference paired with his inability to sleep on the plane, Peter expected to be at least a little tired. Instead, he was nervous enough for his legs to shake and to bump into Happy Hogan’s back every three steps. 

“Might want to change out of it,” Mr. Stark suggested, typing furiously on his phone while Happy carried his bags. He glanced at Peter over the rims of his sunglasses and added, “or just wear something over. The fashion in Germany is terrible, but I don’t think you’ll quite get away with wearing that.” 

“I’m not carrying your bags,” Happy grumbled, pressing Peter’s dingy duffle bag into his chest before shouldering past him to make it out of the plane first. 

Happy went to pick up the car that Mr. Stark happened to keep in Germany for “emergencies”.

While Peter and Mr. Stark waited underneath an awning with cans of fancy sparkling water given to them by a bubbly stewardess, Peter hid behind a luggage cart to change.

After Happy picked them up, they headed straight toward a fancy hotel in the heart of Berlin. 

Peter didn’t remember ever going to Berlin and he couldn’t muster the brainpower to study it enough to see if it looked familiar. As Happy zoomed down the streets, all the buildings and people and colors blurred into one giant blob that was indistinguishable from any other city Peter had seen. 

He suddenly felt plagued with a migraine and motion sickness, both of which he hadn’t had much experience with. He twisted away from the window and put his head into his hands as he swallowed the saliva building in his mouth and tried not to vomit in Mr. Stark’s nice car. 

Thankfully, he made it to the hotel without barfing. He also played it off well enough that neither Mr. Stark or Happy noticed that he was sick. 

Happy checked them into the hotel so Peter and Mr. Stark wouldn’t have to go through the lobby. After ten minutes, he hurried back to the car and handed both of them their key cards. 

Peter got out to find his room, but Mr. Stark stayed in the car, claiming to have some government business to take care of and important people to speak to. He was still clicking away at his phone and hadn’t spoken more than three words to Peter the entire drive there, so Peter thought better than to push it. 

Happy led him to the room, taught him how to use the key card since Peter had never stayed in a hotel by himself before, and left him to his own devices. 

The room itself was almost the size of their apartment back in New York. It had a living room with a couch and a television, a large bedroom with a king-sized bed, and a restroom with a bath nearly the size of a swimming pool. It was monochromatic and all the pictures had some abstract grey, blue, and silver shapes. Everything about it felt sterile as if no one had ever stepped inside this room until this very moment. 

Peter didn’t want to touch anything. He stood in the middle of the room with his duffle bag gripped tightly in his right hand and his left hand clenched in a fist. 

He twisted around and clicked the extra security latch before he could forget and turned back to the expansive room before him. He exhaled slowly before he dropped his duffle bag beside him.

There was a list of mandatory tasks that needed to be done every time he entered a new place. It was a list that had been drilled into his brain ever since his father got full custody of him. 

Step one; check the area for bugs. 

While Steve would insist that checking for insects was important, his father had something much different in mind when scouring all the three hotel rooms they had ever stayed in. 

There was always someone who could benefit from listening in on another person’s conversation, even a conversation as mundane as discussing the weather. For that reason, Peter dedicated the majority of the day to tearing the room apart looking for microscopic microphones and hidden cameras. 

When he found nothing and ended up standing in the middle of the chaotic mess that was couch cushions, coffee table books, eclectic decor, and fake plants, he begrudgingly decided that he was the only one that should be responsible for cleaning it. 

So step two; clean up the mess you undoubtedly just made so the poor people in housekeeping don’t have to. 

Steve came up with that one, and while it took Peter an hour to place everything back in its original spot, he couldn’t help but agree with him. 

Step three was to make sure he could set up a vantage point to watch out the window for any form of threat while also making sure he wasn’t able to be seen. Considering the sun was still out and he didn’t feel like watching people mosey about the streets like a creep, Peter opted for just closing the blinds. 

After that, he spent the rest of the day stuffing fancy hotel soaps into his bag, flipping through every free channel on the television only to discover that Germany had a lot of sitcoms, tumbling on the king-sized bed, trying on his new suit, and ordering room service for the first time. 

When night finally came and the sudden overwhelming feeling of anxiety crept up on him, he realized that he would never be able to fall asleep. He’d never had a place like this to himself before, especially not overnight. 

The more he thought about it, the more lonely he became and soon enough, the loneliness morphed right into terror. 

He wished they had let him bring Kukla, or Ned, or May, or anyone at all just so he wouldn’t be here all by himself. 

When the panic became too much to handle, Peter hurried into the living room and carefully peeled open the blinds. He stayed to the side, leaning against the wall and slowly craning his neck so he could peer out the window without any risk of someone peering back. All the lights were off so it wasn’t like anyone could see him, but he could never afford to be even a little bit careless. 

He wore his brand new suit and figured that Mr. Stark couldn’t be mad if he went to try it out. After all, wouldn’t that just make him more prepared for the fight that was bound to happen the next day? 

However, when he placed his hands on the window and pushed at it to pry it open, he was distraught to discover that it was sealed completely. He pushed at it again, harder this time, and when that didn’t work, he dug his fingers into the pane to try to pull it open. 

When he realized the only way to open it was to shatter the entire thing, he huffed and slumped over in defeat. Even though Mr. Stark would surely have the money to pay for the repairs, it wouldn’t be fair of Peter to break something that he himself couldn’t afford to fix. 

He plopped himself on the floor and crossed his legs. He rested his elbow on his knee and his face in his hand as he watched the ever-growing excitement build in the streets below. Apparently this part of Berlin didn’t know how to go to sleep. Which was fine because Peter didn’t know how to either. 

The only thing was Peter _was_ tired. His eyelids had turned coarse, his body was weak, his brain was fuzzy. Everything inside of him hurt, from his stomach to his muscles to his bones. He didn’t realize missing out on so much sleep would cause so much damage. 

He learned in his health class freshman year that sleep was probably the most important thing an adolescent could do. It helps them grow, encourages their minds to develop, and even flushes toxins out of their brain. But, like with many other things, Peter just assumed he was different. 

He flopped backward until he was sprawled out on the floor. His phone laid on the coffee table above him, and before giving it a second thought, Peter sat up, grabbed it, and dialed the first number that came to mind. 

He didn’t even wait for Mr. Stark’s greeting when the line clicked. Instead, he hurried in by asking, “Why did you tell my dad about me?” 

“What?” Mr. Stark grumbled, obviously annoyed that he was woken up from a deep sleep. 

“Why did you tell him about me stopping those guys at the bank?” Peter pressed, hardening his tone to ensure that Mr. Stark knew that he demanded an answer. 

“Kid, it’s like—” a pause and shuffle occurred through the line, “three in the morning. I know jetlags a bitch, but can this wait until the sun’s out?”

“Was it so he and Steve would sign those documents?” Peter pressed harder. 

“How did you—? No, Pete, that’s not why I did it. I just thought…” Peter could hear Mr. Stark take a deep breath, which was always what he did when he needed to recenter himself. 

Peter raised an eyebrow and refrained from clearing his throat as he waited for an answer.

Mr. Stark exhaled again, sharper this time and admitted, “I mean, I guess you could say I really wasn’t thinking. I thought it would help you, kid. I didn’t think any of this would happen.” 

Peter deflated, suddenly feeling bad for snapping at Mr. Stark when, in reality, this was probably mostly his fault anyway. 

He picked at a loose string in the carpet, and pursed his lips, debating on whether or not an apology was warranted. He mostly decided against it, considering that it wasn’t like he was being out of line given the circumstances. 

It was silent between them for long enough that Peter assumed Mr. Stark had just fallen back to sleep. Peter had one more thing to ask him, though, and if he was asleep then it could just wait. 

But as the time crawled along slower and the silence grew longer and the question kept thrumming through Peter’s brain, he figured it wouldn’t hurt to ask. 

“Hey, Mr. Stark?” 

“Hm?”

“Do you really think my dad did it?” 

Mr. Stark’s sigh crackled through the line. 

Peter could practically hear him rubbing his forehead as he tried to come up with a response. His stomach grew heavier with every second that passed where he didn’t get a response. 

It took Mr. Stark about a minute to formulate his thoughts, and for all that time, the only thing he could come up with was, “It really doesn’t matter what I think. Just get some sleep, Pete.”

There was a click and the line abruptly went dead. 

Peter dropped his phone with a groan before dropping his head into his hands. He ran his fingers through his hair and tugged and looked up to glare at the lively street below. 

Everyone was out, teenagers even. Everyone except Peter. 

They were going to clubs and fancy restaurants and pristine movie theaters. Families were lumped together with their heads thrown back in laughter and excitement. There were young men dressed in dress pants and had their ties loosened. Beside them stumbled grinning girls who held their high heeled shoes in their hands. 

Peter huffed and slumped against the wall, sneering at all their happy faces as he wished that, for once, everyone would stop treating him like a kid. 

***

At half-past nine, Peter was startled from his half-dozed state near the window by a sharp knock on the door. 

“Underoos!” Mr. Stark called out, banging on the door again, “Abre la puerta, por favor!”

Peter rolled his eyes and pushed himself off the floor. He rubbed at the stiffness in his neck as he stumbled towards the door, still half asleep and about three seconds from collapsing onto the floor to finally get the rest he’d been needing for the past however many years. 

He opened the door to reveal a flustered looking Mr. Stark, who was biting at his nails while listening to someone, a man by the sounds of it, talk frantically with him over the phone. 

Mr. Stark nodded a quick greeting to Peter before pushing his way inside. He waved at Peter to close the door, which he did before he locked it and latched the safety lock by the top door hinge. 

“You got it, Ross. The kid’s right here,” Mr. Stark assured before putting the phone on speaker and waving Peter closer. 

“Mr. Parker,” the stern voice of Senator Ross crackled through the speaker, “I’m sorry for the early wake-up call, but I wanted to thank you for your cooperation with our case. You’re not only doing a great service for your country, but for every member of the United Nations.” 

Peter blinked and rubbed his eyes, trying to figure out the best way to inform this man that he was actually Russian when Mr. Stark sharply nudged him in the side. 

“Um, uh, sure thing, sir. Anytime,” Peter stuttered, awkwardly crossing his arms and looking at Mr. Stark for any form of clarification. 

“There’s one other thing we need you to help us with because we know that you’re the only man that can figure this out for us,” Senator Ross continued. 

“Uh, sure. What is—ow!” Peter cried, rubbing his head and hissing to Mr. Stark, “why’d you do that?” 

Mr. Stark just pressed a finger to his lips and pointed back at the phone, silently warning Peter not to interrupt the all-powerful Senator Ross. 

“You see, we’re having a bit of trouble trying to piece together the incident involving James Barnes and Steve Rogers in Berlin. We discovered a recording where Barnes can be heard having a conversation with an unknown third party. It only recorded some kind of message that they exchanged and we were hoping you’d be able to decode it for us.” Senator Ross explained without a hitch, acting as if Peter didn’t say anything in between. 

“Uh,” Peter dragged, looking over at Mr. Stark before shrugging, “Sure.” 

He could practically hear Senator Ross’s lips drag up into a wicked grin before he purred, “Perfect.” 

There was a click on the line, and suddenly a recording began to play. 

A man’s voice spoke, clumsily stuttering the word, _“Желание”_ , but his pronunciation was so horrible that Peter had no idea what he was trying to say. 

His forehead crinkled, and he leaned closer to the phone as if that would give him the leverage to decode the message. 

By the third word, which sounded something like _“Ржавый”_ , or rusted, Peter realized that he wouldn’t be able to help. 

Peter chuckled and informed the two men that, “This guy’s Russian is really bad. It mostly sounds like nothing and the other stuff just doesn’t make sense.” 

“Well, what stuff can you make out?” Ross snapped. 

The smile vanished from Peter’s face and his stomach knotted at the tone. He glanced over at Mr. Stark, who at least looked a little apologetic, before he responded. 

“Uh, it’s nonsense mostly. Random words like ‘dawn’ and ‘seventeen’. I think this guy just doesn’t know how to speak Russian,” Peter shrugged and waited for them to stop the recording. 

They didn’t stop it though, and upon hearing the next word, Peter would soon understand why. 

The man’s garbled Russian stumbled through, _“Возвращение на Родину”_ and with it came a scream that burst through Peter’s brain and shocked his ears. 

He was suddenly five years old again. He could feel the scratchy blanket over his head, the limp pillow he pressed against his ears, his scraped knees digging into the hard cot. Papa’s screams were rooms away, yet they engulfed the room like flames. Peter was crying as he pushed the pillow over his head and prayed for this to not be the time they killed his papa. 

He could feel the pounding of his heart, his tears scalding his hot face, his nails digging into his palms, the scream he kept in his throat that desperately wanted to come out and plead for them to _stop! You’re killing him! You’re killing my papa!”_

“What was that?” Senator Ross barked, voice crackling like it came from the box above the door, and Peter was fifteen again.

“This doesn’t make sense,” Peter wheezed, stepping away from the phone and putting his hand on the wall. The skin of his palm had broken under the pressure from his nails. His heart beat so fast he could feel the shocking pain shoot down through his left arm. The world suddenly began to spin around him. 

“He says he doesn’t know,” Mr. Stark answered, calculating Peter’s reaction with cautious bewilderment. 

“I’d like to hear that from him,” Senator Ross stressed, voice sharp and harsh and everything that made Peter want to vomit. 

“I don’t know,” Peter sputtered, taking deep breaths and swallowing to stop any kind of bile from rising in his throat. “I’ve never heard that before.” 

“Well, you heard it from the kid himself,” Mr. Stark shrugged off, “Hope you get your answers, Ross. I’ll call you when I have them in custody.” 

“Stark—” 

Mr. Stark hung up before Senator Ross could get another word in. 

As soon as the line was disconnected, Peter stumbled back like a puppet cut from its strings. His legs turned into jelly and his throat stung and his stomach twisted up as a thousand repressed memories burst into his brain like firecrackers. 

Suddenly, Mr. Stark’s hands were gripping Peter’s shoulders so he wouldn’t stumble backward and crack his head and ruin the sterile, white furniture. 

“Pete?” Mr. Stark asked, voice thick with panic as he watched the boy spiral in front of his eyes. 

“I forgot they would do that,” Peter stuttered, eyes frantically searching the ground as if it had the answer as to why he would forget something that used to be so prevalent. 

“Peter,” Tony said, shaking Peter’s shoulders to get his attention. 

Peter’s breathing was getting erratic, but still, he looked up. His eyes were wide and his pupils dilated until his irises were nearly nonexistent. 

“Why did you bring me here?” he wheezed. He took a step back and looked around the room. “Are they here? Did they get my dad?” 

“Peter. Hey, Pete,” Mr. Stark repeated, tone stressed as he desperately tried to get Peter’s attention, “Look, you’re a nice kid. And everyone likes you. That’s why I brought you here, okay?” Tony assured, raising his hands to appear less threatening as he took a step towards Peter. 

Peter took another step backward, looking like a spooked cat that was a second away from bolting. 

Peter knew that Mr. Stark couldn’t let that happen. He felt as if he were a pawn in this game. Like somehow he would give them all the answers as to why Bucky went off his rocker and decided to put a bomb in a crowded building. Peter knew that getting Bucky into custody rested a lot on him being on the pro-accords side. 

To his credit, Mr. Stark stayed where he was and kept his hands up as he continued, as calmly as he could, with, “Those words did something to your father and we just want to know why. We’re not going to let anything happen to you or your dad, but we need you to talk some sense into him. Get him and Steve to realize that we’re not the bad guys. We need to find out who that man was and how your dad knew him, okay? We just need you to talk to him.” 

“My dad wouldn’t have known him,” Peter insisted. “He wouldn’t just let someone take control of him like that. If he was working with someone, they wouldn’t need to say those words.” 

And suddenly, like a metaphoric lightbulb flicked on above him, it all made sense. If his dad meant to blow up the UN, then he wouldn’t need anyone to command him to do so. So if someone needed leverage for him to return to the state of the Soldier, then—

Peter’s head snapped towards Mr. Stark and he asked, “When can I talk to them?” 

***

When Mr. Stark first said they were meeting with his dad and Steve at an airport, Peter thought that meant they were going home. But his heart deflated when Mr. Stark told him to suit up before they left. 

Peter crouched in his designated hiding spot behind a dumpster on the top story of an empty car lot when Steve first walked out. 

He was dressed completely from boots to cowl. His shield was dull from the overcast that hung above them, but the sight of it made Peter’s eyes sting. 

Two others walked out behind Steve; a man named Sam and the other, who Peter couldn’t see very well, had to be Papa. 

He met Sam a few times when Steve invited him over for dinner, but he and Papa didn’t get along very well so those times were few and far between. 

Peter found himself relieved that Steve’s team had enough to go against theirs. 

Mr. Stark called in Rhodey, the Wakandan prince who Mr. Stark informed him was named T’Challa, Vision, and a woman named Natasha who Peter had heard about but Papa prohibited him from ever meeting. 

He once pressed to try to find out why, but Papa just shrugged it off with a short comment about them having “history”. 

Peter craned his neck, desperate to see and analyze his father’s facial expression. Would he look guilty? Angry? Closed off? Annoyed? But Steve blocked a majority of him, so Peter was just going to have to use his imagination. 

He was instructed by Mr. Stark ad nauseum to not leave this spot until he was given the signal, but when the conversation between Steve and Mr. Stark became hostile practically the second it started, Peter strongly debated going against that instruction. 

“He was set up by the psychiatrist, Tony. What Bucky did back there wasn’t him,” Steve insisted, his voice on the verge of begging as he desperately needed Mr. Stark to believe him. 

Peter perked up, heart cramping as he realized that he could be right, that his dad probably didn’t blow up the UN and maybe Mr. Stark was going to realize that too and they could all just go home. 

He was hopeful until he heard Mr. Stark yell at Steve, “You’re gonna turn Barnes over and you’re gonna come with us _now_ because it’s _us_ or a squad of JSOC guys with no compunction about being impolite.” 

Peter scrambled to his feet, nearly slipping in the process, while his heart crashed into his sternum. 

“You said we were just going to talk with them!” Peter hissed into the intercom that Mr. Stark had built into his suit. 

And Mr. Stark, to his credit, at least had the decency to look guilty. 

“I didn’t think they’d go through with it,” he admitted into his coms. “I was kind of expecting them to forfeit.” 

“Tony, who are you talking to?” Steve exasperated and looked at the four people Mr. Stark brought with him. 

“Alright, I’ve run out of patience,” Mr. Stark sighed in lieu of responding. He cupped his hands to his face and called, “Underoos!” 

“Shit,” Peter hissed, not giving himself the time to back out before he lept off the building. 

In the three seconds he was in the air, he shot a web at Steve’s hand, stole his shield, and flipped into a decent landing on top of an airport tug. 

His dad’s face, the face Peter had just sought out, was the first he saw when he landed. The unforgivable mix of horror and rage he expressed was something Peter was actually fine never seeing. 

Peter gulped but managed to straighten up and stand before the small crowd in front of them. 

Papa’s horror slowly faded, but the rage grew ten-fold. He worked his jaw, no doubt grinding his teeth to stop himself from yelling. 

“Stark,” Papa seethed, speaking for the first time of that entire exchange. He slowly raised one menacing finger and pointed it at Peter, “if that is who I think it is,”

He paused to shift his bone-breaking glare to Mr. Stark and finished, “it better not be.” 

The air around them morphed into a stinging cold in record time. If anyone thought it was tense before, they weren’t ready for the kind of discomfort that came when you pissed Bucky Barnes off. Especially when you pissed him off and it somehow involved his kid. 

Everyone’s feet became glued to the ground. Cautious and uncomfortable looks were exchanged between them. 

Mr. Stark visibly swallowed to help his now dry throat, but with the scowl still plastered to his face, it was hard for anyone else to see that he was nervous. 

When the tension became too much for Peter to bear, and he couldn’t stand the sight of his father enraged or Mr. Stark scared for a second longer, he decided it was up to him to defuse it. He took one deep, shaky breath before he spoke up. 

“Hi, uh,” he stuttered and waved awkwardly to himself. “Spider-Man.” 

Eight sharp pairs of eyes snapped to him so fast that he almost stumbled off the airport tug. 

Steve, for his credit, remained stoic through most of the exchange. However, the cold expression he gave Peter was enough to scare the dead. Upon hearing Peter’s introduction, Steve slowly raised his right eyebrow before he repeated, “Spider-Man?” 

His calm resolve shattered when he sharply turned towards Stark and snapped, “What the hell, Tony?” 

Rhodey groaned and threw his head back, lifting his faceplate just so he could rub his temples. 

“Tony, please don’t tell me you brought their fucking kid here,” Rhodey pleaded. 

“Kid?” T’Challa repeated and looked over at Peter. 

An uneasiness overwhelmed Peter as the masked man continued to examine him. It wouldn’t have been so bad if he could see his face, or get a grasp on his tone. He couldn’t tell if he was being judged for being a teenager, or if Mr. Stark was being judged through him for bringing a teenager. 

In the drama of it all, everyone’s attention had switched away from Steve and Bucky. 

Mr. Stark and Rhodey were bickering. Natasha raised an eyebrow at Vision, who was actively trying to analyze the interactions around him. T’Challa was still staring at Peter and Peter was too busy not looking at T’Challa. 

So when Sam gave a hand signal to Steve (which Peter would later find out meant that Sam’s redwing found the quinjet that was essential to their original escape plan), and Bucky began moving towards Peter, no one noticed until an arrow zipped through the air and cut the web that had constrained Steve’s hands. 

An invisible force crashed into Peter and knocked him to the ground while ripping the shield from his hands. Before he could process what the hell just happened, a grown man appeared beside Steve with the shield in his hands. 

“I believe this is yours, Captain America,” the man said and handed the shield back to Steve. 

In seconds, the airport erupted into chaos. 

Mr. Stark flew off, apparently to grab two other Avengers who had joined Steve’s anti-Accords campaign as they were both hiding in a car lot. Rhodey went after Steve. Natasha started fighting the man who knocked Peter to the ground. T’Challa ran after Bucky and Bucky ran towards Peter. 

In all honesty, Peter didn’t see most of the fight. He scrambled to his feet as quickly as he could, frantically asking Mr. Stark what he should do to help. He was instructed to keep his distance and “web them up”, and Peter only agreed so Mr. Stark wouldn’t be upset. 

As soon as it started and people went this way and bullets flew from that way, he jumped in and tried to help out where he could, but a strong hand gripped his forearm the second he tried to use his web shooter. 

He turned his head in surprise and came face to face with his seething father. 

“What the hell were you thinking?” Papa hissed, swiftly pulling Peter along while everyone else was fighting beside them. 

“I needed to talk to you,” Peter squeaked. 

Papa sputtered incredulously and asked, “Then why the hell didn’t you answer my text?” 

Peter opened his mouth to answer, but suddenly his balance was lost. He tumbled to the ground as T’Challa lunged at Papa. 

Papa swung his metal fist toward T’Challa’s face, but since he was on the ground, he lost any kind of leverage and T’Challa gracefully ducked away from it before he kicked Papa in the ribs. 

Peter scrambled to his feet, his heart in his throat, and lunged towards T’Challa, who swiftly turned to shove Peter away once more. 

Papa wheezed and curled over, pressing his knuckles to the ground to lift himself up, but T’Challa kicked him again, sending him another few feet in the other direction. 

When Papa didn’t automatically make another move to stand, T’Challa turned toward Peter and rested a gentle hand on his shoulder. Before he could ask if Peter was alright, Peter punched him in the nose. 

A sharp crack sounded and T’Challa stumbled backward, holding onto his face as it bled behind his mask. While he was distracted, Peter kicked him in the stomach to knock him off his balance. Then, Peter quickly webbed T’Challa’s hands and feet to the ground so he couldn’t get back up. 

He ran to Papa, who had already stood back up but was hunched over and grabbing onto his stomach. 

“Did he break your ribs?” Peter asked, surprisingly out of breath, as suddenly a searing hot wave flew past them. 

Papa yanked Peter to the side as a giant truck set ablaze flew past them. 

“Sorry!” a man, the same one who first pushed Peter to take Steve’s shield, called to them, “I thought it was a water truck!” 

Papa growled and wiped soot off his face as Peter frantically turned to see half of the people on “his” team shakingly standing up as the smashed truck and spots of fire laid behind them. 

Peter pulled off his half-burnt mask and coughed ash out of his lungs. He hunched over and hacked some more as five pairs of feet were heard running up to them. 

Papa patted Peter’s back as he quipped, “Great job, Lang.” 

“I didn’t think it would blow up like that!” Lang cried. He turned toward Peter with a guilty grimace and said, “Sorry, kid.” 

Peter waved his hand and wheezed, “Don’t worry about it.” 

“Put your hands up, above your head. It’ll open your lungs up.” Papa instructed. 

Peter straightened up to do as he was told but was startled upon seeing five sets of eyes, three of which he hadn’t seen before, carefully examine him. He stepped to the side so he was mostly hidden behind Papa and all the eyes, minus Steve’s, turned away. 

“There’s our ride,” a man with a bow gripped in his hand stated, pointing toward the quinjet. “Think it’ll be best if we got a move on it.” 

“The kid just hacked up a lung, Clint. I think we can wait a second,” Sam admonished. 

“We don’t have a second,” a girl in a red cloak chimed in. She had a Slavic accent and a face that looked like it didn’t know how to smile, but Peter didn’t recognize her. 

“I’m fine,” Peter promised, forcing the trembling out of his voice. He pushed his shoulders back and held his hands at his sides, standing in a defensive position so they wouldn’t think of him as weak. 

But before any of them could take another step, another hot beam burst from the sky and carved an intimidating line before them, effectively blocking their path to the quinjet. 

They all looked up to locate the source of the beam and found The Vision floating calmly in the sky. 

“Captain Rogers,” he addressed, stoic voice booming through the sky, loud enough for it to echo. “I know you believe what you’re doing is right, but for the collective good you must surrender now.” 

The rest of Iron Man’s team appeared as he gave his short speech. Mr. Stark landed first, followed by a peeved Natasha, and then War Machine. 

Silence filled the landing area as each member stared their opposing team down, carefully analyzing weak points.

Peter, for example, focused on Mr. Stark’s arc reactor. Not that he could ever, or would ever, do anything to harm it, but it was the weakest point in his team by far. One swift kick to that, and he’d be down for the count. Not that Peter would do it, but he would be irresponsible to not weigh the benefits of taking out that team’s most vital member. 

It was then that Mr. Stark’s lifeless helmet turned toward Peter and seemingly cast an accusatory glare. 

“So,” Mr. Stark spat, “I suppose you chose your team.” 

It shouldn’t have hurt much, those six words. But somehow they held enough betrayal, the emotion soaked in them like a sponge, that Peter feared Mr. Stark wouldn’t ever think he was a nice kid again. 

“Mr. Stark,” Peter stammered eventually, tilting his head as he snuffled, unable to fully compose himself. He motioned towards his father helplessly and conceded, “he’s my dad.”

The helmet quirked to the side before Mr. Stark said, “I guess that’s all it would take to win you over. Sometimes, you’re too forgiving for your own good.” 

“Enough, Tony!” Steve snapped, grabbing Papa’s bicep before he could lunge at Stark. 

Peter stood there stunned. His heart zipped inside him and he felt his fingers go numb. His mouth laid slightly agape as suddenly a boiling feeling of anger began to rise inside of him. 

He wanted to scream, to tell Stark that he knew he was being used, that it wasn’t fair of him to make Peter pick sides and then force him to choose the side his dad wasn’t on and get mad at him for switching because of course he would switch. His dad is his dad and at the end of the day, Tony is just Tony. 

“What do we do, Cap?” Sam asked, though his serious tone showed that he already knew the answer. 

Peter was thankful for the distraction because for a moment he feared that he _would_ yell, but now his mind could only focus on how the hell they were going to get out of here. 

“We fight,” Steve answered through gritted teeth, but before he could step forward, Lang put his hand on Steve’s chest. 

“I can distract them,” Lang stage-whispered to Steve, “but if it goes wrong, it might tear me in half.” 

“You’re going to tear yourself in half?” Papa sputtered, perplexity emphasized through each crease in his forehead. 

Lang took off before answering, charging straight toward the opposing team while letting out a gladiator scream. 

All of them watched in awe as Lang grew bigger than most skyscrapers Peter had ever seen. When Lang laughed, it rumbled through the sky and vibrated the air so bad it made Peter’s stomach hurt. 

Lang reached out with his giant hand and plucked Rhodey, who had flown after him, from the sky as easily as a toddler snatching a ladybug. 

After only processing the sight for a moment, Sam smirked and sprinted behind him. He leaped up and went soaring into the air. 

This caught Vision’s attention, who immediately flew after him. 

Clint shrugged and followed, charging toward the team, too, and shooting arrows left and right. Natasha, in response, launched herself at him. 

The girl with the cloak lingered for just a second but took one glance at Peter before she too charged into the fight. 

Stark huffed and flew after her as well, only for her to wave some red beams from her hand and send him crashing back to the ground. 

“This isn’t part of the plan!” Steve yelled into his intercom, snapping the shield onto his back to prepare to follow them into battle. 

“Tell them to come back,” Papa snapped, stern voice laced with panic, “We have to leave. That guy’s probably in Siberia right now.” 

“New plan, Cap!” Sam called back through his intercom, “Get to the jet, all three of you. The rest of us aren’t getting out of here.” 

“As much as I hate to admit it,” Clint chimed in, “if we’re going to win this one, some of us have to lose it.” 

Steve huffed, dropping his hand from his intercom and looking out at the area before them. 

With the entirety of the Stark team distracted, the three remaining members of Steve’s team had a clear shot to the quinjet. 

Everyone knew Steve hated abandoning his team. He would gladly sacrifice himself before risking the safety of anyone. However, with the end of this long and awful situation so close in reach and the potential repercussions that would come if they didn’t stop what was happening in Siberia, Steve couldn’t help but realize his team was right. 

He was going to need to leave them behind. 

Papa and Steve exchanged a look, silently confirming with the other if it was okay to do this before they both nodded. Papa grabbed Peter’s arm and all three of them took off toward their ride to freedom. 

As they ran through the entrance, a tower from outside crumbled behind them, causing dust and debris and large pieces of cement tumbling down their way. 

Thankfully, they were all agile and trained enough to narrowly avoid being crushed.

Steve growled into his intercom, “What the hell was that?” 

“Sorry, Cap. Vision got away from me,” Sam apologized. Steve huffed and said it was fine, but his glare grew stronger while they sprinted towards the quinjet. 

They all skidded to a halt as Natasha calmly appeared from behind a concrete pillar. She stood in their way and quirked her head to the side. 

“You’re not gonna stop?” she asked rhetorically. 

Steve regretfully shook his head and said, “You know I can’t.” 

Natasha huffed and raised her fist, muttering to herself, “I’m going to regret this.” 

And as Peter tensed, waiting for the bite of shock to consume him, he was surprised to watch it zoom past his ear and strike T’Challa behind them. 

“Huh,” Peter mumbled, “My web’s supposed to hold longer than that.” 

“Go,” Natasha insisted and shocked T’Challa again. 

Peter felt himself being herded into the quinjet before processing that the doors had even opened. 

Papa and Steve rushed in behind him, slamming the door closed before hurrying to the command seats to prepare for take-off. 

“What about everyone else?” Peter inquired, eyes darting between his parents. “How are they getting out?” 

“They would be on here, too, if everything went to plan,” Steve grumbled, clicking through the quinjet’s control panel to put in the coordinates for their destination. Then under his breath, he continued, “Goddamn Stark bringing our goddamn kid into this goddamn fight. Ruining fucking everything.” 

Peter could count on one hand how many times he heard Steve cuss in his whole life, and in just the two sentences, the amount doubled. 

Peter ground his teeth and took a silent step backward, wanting to defuse the anger in Steve that was about to make him explode because the last thing Peter wanted right now was to be screamed at. 

Steve glanced back at Peter with a stormy look on his face before he turned towards Papa sitting in the seat beside him and stated, “We need to hide him.” 

“You don’t think I know that, Steve?” Papa snapped, slamming on his own control panel. “Where do you want him to go, anyway, huh? Where the hell is he gonna go?” 

“I don’t know, Buck, but—”

“What, you want him to go back to Stark? After that shit he just pulled?” 

“What? I never fucking said that, James.” 

“Well, do you?” 

“No, okay? No. Just forget I said anything.” 

Peter stood, muscles tensed up like knotted rope, as he wrung his hands and chewed his lip. He never really heard the two of them fight like that before, and given the suddenness of the whole thing, he assumed they’d been fighting like that for some time. 

It made sense, though. They were both under indescribable amounts of stress, from the Accords to being on the FBI’s most-wanted list, to fighting the entire German army, and now running away to God knows where in a stolen quinjet that was most likely being tracked. 

And then there was everything that Peter did to them. Fighting, coming here, arguing with them, ignoring the message from a few days ago. Hell, ignoring the message was probably enough for them to assume that Peter was dead. And for them to find out he wasn’t because he popped into their fight while on the opposing team, wearing a sparkling new uniform made by the man who was doing everything in his power to bring them in? 

His eyes burned, and his throat stung, and he didn’t want them to hate him even though they should. 

They had to know that he never meant to fight against them, that he had wanted to be on their side all along. Even when the news first broke out with solid, picture proof that his father blew up the UN, he constantly doubted the possibility that his father could even think of accomplishing it. 

Peter finally found enough courage within himself to muttered, “Mr. Stark said we were all just gonna talk—”

Papa cut him off by simply raising his hand. He didn’t turn around. He didn’t want to hear Peter’s excuses. 

“I can’t even look at you right now,” he said, and it wasn’t really angry or stern. He just sounded exhausted. “Just go sit in the back. And can you put on your goddamn seatbelt so you don’t die on this trip? Even though it seems like you’ve been wanting that to happen for a while now.” 

Peter, stunned numb for the second time, slowly turned around and walked on weak legs to the back of the quinjet. He walked to the furthest seat possible, sat down, and felt his heart crumble into a ball so small his chest ached in its hollowness. 

He snuffled as one tear fell and rolled down to his chin before falling off into his lap. He grabbed the seatbelt with shaky hands and clipped it in, and he remembered not so fondly of a time where he needed his father to do it for him. 

***

_Russia, years ago._

Peter was unruly in the summertime. 

The room had no ventilation, no windows to open or vents to cycle the air. The concrete grew hotter with the temperature as it filled the room with dry, hot air like an oven. 

So for a little boy who was not accustomed to that type of climate, it made it very hard for him to settle down for bed. 

“Petya,” Papa half-heartedly scolded from his cot, “I already told you it is time to sleep.” 

“But I can’t sleep!” Peter whined, lying on his mat and flailing his arms above his head. He pouted. “It’s too hot in here!” 

Papa sighed and sat up. He patted the spot beside him. Peter scrambled beside him without question before climbing into his father’s lap. 

Papa nudged Peter’s head so it was lying against his chest before he laid back down. His fingers danced over and through Peter’s soft, curly hair when he asked, “Have I told you about the Hakkoda Mountains in the wintertime?” 

Peter lifted his head, his little eyebrows furrowing when he answered, “No.” 

A soft smile grace Papa’s face before he gently pushed Peter’s head back down. 

“I was in a helicopter very high above the mountains. The snow fell from beneath me.”

“It _did_?” 

“It did,” Papa affirmed, his smile growing as he peered down at Peter, “the clouds sat under the helicopter, so I got to watch snow build and then fall. And the mountains were so thick with it that they looked soft. Like a cloud. It looked like I could jump right into it and still be safe.” 

“Did you, Papa?” Peter asked through a yawn. He snuggled closer but tried very hard to keep his eyes open. 

“Of course not. I had you to come back to, didn’t I?” 

Peter closed his eyes and gave a sleepy grin. 

“Yes, but I would’ve forgiven you if you jumped anyway.” 

***

Peter watched the snow fall from below the helicarrier. He watched it collect and billow onto the mountains beneath them. 

For some reason, Peter had a feeling Papa wouldn’t forgive him if he jumped. 

It was silent in the jet. A wave of palpable anger coursed through the air and made Peter shrink in on himself further. 

He kept his gaze out the window so he wouldn’t be tempted to look at his parents and see them exchange irritated looks or mouth to each other that Peter was too much trouble than he was worth. 

He watched the landscapes outside, watched the cities morph to mountains morph to grasslands morph to snow. He didn’t know how long they’d been there for. It felt like an eternity and a minute, but Peter kept his eyes on that window regardless. 

Suddenly, after a seemingly eternal stretch of snow, something new came into sight. 

Ahead laid what originally looked like an awkward pile of black rocks that contrasted harshly against the pure white snow. Scattered trees stood half-hazard around it in an unnatural formation. It seemed as though there were originally much more, a forest perhaps, but with the cold and something else, most of them rotted away and abandoned their brothers. 

As they grew closer, Peter realized the rocks were actually piles of burnt debris that had sat there for so long that the snow blanketed them and the land claimed them as its own. 

It was obviously the remains of a building, and Peter wracked his brain to think of who would build anything in the middle of this desolate place. 

“This has to be a trap,” Steve whispered to Papa, obviously trying to keep his statement out of Peter’s ears. 

“There’s more underground,” Papa assured and Peter began to wonder if they had ever been here before. 

Peter tilted his head and examined the rubble when suddenly, a thought occurred to him. 

“What’s in Siberia?” Peter asked, voice high and nervous as somehow a smell that came from nowhere invaded his nostrils. It was like the smell had burnt itself into a deep part of his brain, only to be released when the time was right. 

He looked over at Papa, who was looking at Steve, who was looking at Papa. All of them worked their brains to find what to say next. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Papa answered, still looking at Steve as if waiting for his approval before he could continue. Steve shrugged, and Papa turned forward. He finished, unhelpfully, with, “We aren’t staying here long.”

“There’s just something we need to take care of,” Steve chimed in as he flipped some switches and prepared them to land. 

As the jet landed softly on the clean snow, the sight of burnt rubble and pieces of crumbled concrete became easier to see. 

Everything felt eerily familiar, like a whisper at the back of his mind becoming louder and louder the longer he stared at the rubble. 

Steve turned to Papa, both still seated in the pilot seats, and said, “We can’t just leave him in the jet.” 

Papa took a deep and frustrated breath, and grumbled, “Fine.” 

He looked back toward Peter and cleared his throat. 

Peter quickly looked over, eyes wide and body frozen still. He feared that if he did anything to disrupt this moment, then his dad would just say nevermind and never speak to him again. 

But Papa’s expression had softened some since Peter had last seen it. He was obviously still pissed off, but clearly the hours they had been flying were enough to calm him down. 

“Come here,” he commanded, quirking his chin towards the front. 

Peter stood quickly and rushed to the front, wringing his hands as he stood in front of his parents. 

Papa raised a finger and gave Peter a pointed look, “If this is going to work, you’re going to need to listen to everything I say, got it? There’s no arguing with me or Steve, even if you really want to, understand?” 

Peter glanced at Steve, who was looking expectantly toward him, before he gave a tentative nod. 

“What’s happening?” he tried to ask, but Papa raised an eyebrow and Peter’s mouth snapped shut. 

“We won’t be in here long, but while we’re inside, I want you to close your eyes, okay?” Papa emphasized, tone lighter. 

Peter’s eyes narrowed. “Why?” 

“You can’t argue,” Papa sternly reminded, “But it’s for the best. Trust me.” 

“Fine,” Peter huffed and dramatically slapped a hand over his eyes. ‘Happy?” 

“Very,” Papa snarked, before standing up. 

Peter heard him walk by him and open a compartment above one of the seats. Papa pulled something out and from the bitter scent of metal, Peter knew it was a gun. He felt Papa walk closer before he put his free hand on Peter’s shoulder 

Steve led the way, walking out of the jet first toward the rubble. 

Papa guided Peter to follow Steve, while Peter tried his best not to stumble. 

Even with enhanced senses, not being able to see was terrifying. The transition from the metal floor of the jet to soft snow was enough to make his knees buckle, but Papa grabbed his bicep before he could lose his balance. 

The wind outside was striking, and it felt as if it were cutting his face anywhere his hand wasn’t covering. It screamed against his ears and ruffled his hair until finally, he felt his feet hit concrete ground. 

A door slammed shut behind them. 

It was cold in whatever building they were in, just less harsh without the wind. They walked further still until a screen door opened and Papa led him and Steve inside a small room. When the small room rocked and lowered, Peter figured they were in an elevator. 

It landed at the bottom with a harsh thunk that rattled each of them. The screen was pulled open and they stepped out into a new area of concrete. 

“Can I open them now?” Peter asked. 

“No,” Papa grumbled, still pushing him along the cold walkway. 

“Why?” Peter groaned, “you always treat me like a—”

He dropped his hand in retaliation and upon taking in the concrete walls around them, he immediately wished he didn’t.

“Peter,” Papa hissed, “what the hell did I just say?” 

But Peter did not respond. An eerie hollowness crept from inside these walls and overtook him. 

Underneath the soot laid thousands of bloodstains, some that spilled from Peter’s own hands and nose and knees. 

He spun around and faced the once endless hallway with doors that never seemed to stop. Countless rooms laid around him and memories of his past self sitting alone on his mat at night imagining what could be inside them flooded Peter’s mind. 

He could hear the marching of child-sized shoes echo through the halls, could smell the pungent scent of gun smoke and burning flesh and feel a grimy hand grip the back of his neck or his bicep as he was shoved into the training room to the van that carried him to his next mission to the room he shared with his father. 

Desperate to look at something that he kept very distant in his mind, he took off down the hall in a dead sprint. 

“Peter!” Papa screamed in frustration and panic and immediately ran after him. He turned over his shoulder to Steve and barked, “stay here.” 

Flashes of metal doors ripped off their hinges but now laying silently in the doorways crossed Peter’s eyes. Their lifelessness seemed to mock him, reminding him of the only life he had known of for so long and how it had been dead for years. 

The last time he had seen these halls, these lifeless halls, he was crying in the arms of his father while he was made to watch his only home burn to the ground and know that the corpses of the only children he had seen were burning along with it. 

It was the third door before the end of the hall that made him feel sick. Spotting it, though it looked identical to the others, nearly made him twist and hurl the nothing in his stomach. 

But he pushed through, running up to the door and shoving it to the ground. 

Behind it sat a four-wall room, barely bigger than a storage closet. The walls were covered in soot. A blackened toilet and sink were melted in the corner. A tiny metal frame that was maybe six feet long and two feet wide was deformed and settled in a weird mesh. 

“Oh,” Peter gasped, frozen in the doorway. 

It was smaller than he remembered. 

Guilt tore in his belly and there it sat. It sat in the room, on that bed, in these walls. It choked him like a frayed noose and from there it swooped to rip up his stomach. 

Were the girls still lying in the room next door? Were their corpses there for the world to see? Were their stomachs and ribs caved? Were their jaws slacked open, one last scream before their unjust execution? Or did they take it like they always had; with their lips closed, eyes empty, and faces pale? 

He forgot how lonely this could be. How he spent most of his childhood trapped inside this tiny room. There are little fond memories that come to him when staring at that burnt cot or the charred walls. The only hint of childhood that made Peter feel safe was his father, and most of the best memories came before he was five. 

He was reminded of the hours he’d spent staring at the ceiling, wondering what it would feel like to die because that had to have been much less painful. He remembered the loneliest days when his father no longer knew him. When he no longer smiled or sang or told Peter stories before bed. 

He had forgotten it. He forgot so much more than he intended to. 

Why was it that he thought he only remembered the worst? The yellow-toothed agents? The deep cuts in his knees? The blood on his hands? The screams of a Norwegian mother begging him to let her go home? 

Those were awful, but the worst was the lonely times. The times when Papa wasn’t Papa anymore. When Peter would sit in silence for hours and hours and just wait for Papa to say something. It was those times when he knew that no one loved him, and if he died there would be no one to cry. 

He cautiously stepped into the room, and the walls were so close they nearly suffocated him. 

“Petya,” Papa spoke a little breathless from the doorway, “you shouldn’t be in here.” 

Peter didn’t answer nor did he turn. Instead, he looked at the soot-covered walls and pressed his hand upon it. 

The concrete, cold, dry, and dirty felt like a home Peter once tried so hard to forget. A home where he sharpened his knife, dug into an expectant mother’s belly and screamed _justice._

“Don’t you remember?” Peter started but stopped. A pregnant pause replaced the words as he pushed his hand closer to the charred walls. Cold, grainy, familiar, “I used to climb these walls.” 

He twisted towards his father, eyes shiny and wide like a star that knew it was dying, just moments from fading away. 

His voice came out very small when he asked, “This was our room, wasn’t it?” 

He pulled his hand away and ash drenched it, covering his fingers and palm like he’d caught frostbite from a particularly cold winter when they weren’t given extra blankets or hot food to eat or even moved to a warmer room. 

“No,” Papa answered with a rough and stern voice. It left no room for questioning yet Peter continued. 

“Yes, it was,” Peter insisted, defensive, “you’re a terrible liar.” 

Papa sighed and peered back out towards the hallway, hands shifting on his gun. He turned back to Peter, making his face very stern when he said, “Let’s go, Peter. There isn’t time to worry about this now.” 

“But it was!” Peter insisted, standing his ground in the middle of their charred room, “God, why can’t you ever tell me anything? You all act like I’m a little kid, but I know way more than you think I do. I know this was our home.” 

Papa’s resolve cracked when he snapped, “This wasn’t a home!” 

“Don’t lie to me!” Peter yelled back, eyes dancing like licking flames of an angry fire. “You can’t lie to me, I was raised here!” 

And he stopped, wilting like a paper cast over the stove. He turned to the wall once more. 

His voice, confused and small, broke when he asked, “Wasn’t I?” 

Papa exhaled very slowly from his nose. He shifted to look out the door once more and tightened his grip on the gun. Finally, his face fell soft as he looked back to his son and quirked his chin. 

“C’ mon, honey,” he urged, “We gotta move.” 

With that, it was the second goodbye to the home Peter never wanted, but could never forget. 

***

Papa led a numb Peter back to Steve, who tried to ask if everything was fine, but Papa shook his head before Steve could open his mouth. 

“We have to let him know,” Papa resigned. “He deserves to know.” 

Steve looked reluctant, scrunching his nose and nearly shaking his head as he turned the idea over. 

“I’m not sure that’s the best idea, Buck.” 

“We can’t treat him like a baby forever,” Papa responded, and since he was the father and this was his child, what he said went. 

Steve sighed, giving in, and was about to nod when a clang came from behind the large metal door that separated them from the other half of the compound.

Steve reacted first, shoving Papa behind him and crouching behind his shield. 

Papa pushed Peter behind him and lifted his gun towards the door. 

After a few tense moments, the doors shrieked as they were pried open. Once they were opened completely, Iron Man was revealed, his mask lowered over his face.

He stepped forward, and no one relaxed as his mask fell away. 

“You seem a little defensive,” Mr. Stark commented, walking closer still. 

Steve quirked an eyebrow and retorted, “It’s been a long day.” 

He loosened up but still kept his shield in front of him. He didn’t hold it quite as tightly as he should’ve been, but Peter supposed Steve wasn’t taking Tony as a threat. 

Papa, on the other hand, didn’t relax. He stepped more in front of Peter, completely blocking him from Tony’s line of sight. 

Peter craned his neck so he could see Mr. Stark and maybe say hi and apologize for leaving them all behind without an explanation, but Papa nudged him with his elbow as a warning for Peter to keep quiet. 

“At ease, soldier,” Mr. Stark snorted, “do you not see my metaphorical white flag?” 

“What are you doing here, Tony?” Steve exasperated, standing up from his crouch and lowering his shield. 

Mr. Stark shrugged, his tone becoming serious as he suggested, “Maybe your story’s not so crazy.” 

He looked away for a moment, taking a step back. 

“Ross doesn’t know I’m here. I’d like to keep it that way.” 

“Does he know about Peter?” Steve asked. 

Mr. Stark scrunched his nose and refused to look back at Steve as he shrugged, “He might’ve heard about him in passing.” 

“Jesus Christ, Tony!” Steve snapped. 

Mr. Stark’s head snapped back toward them as he defensively claimed, “It’s not like he only knew about Peter because of me, Cap. You’re both on file and Peter, as your adopted son, is in said files. _I_ made sure he never got to talk to Peter alone.” 

Everyone went silent. Mr. Stark’s angry huffing calmed for a moment for him to quip, “But it’s not like I’d ever get a thank you.” 

Steve and Papa rolled their eyes and refused to respond, so Mr. Stark sighed dramatically and continued, “Since I only heard you’re little spiel about Zemo controlling your beloved husband back in Berlin, I can’t help but think there are pieces to this story that I’m missing.” 

“Like what?” Steve asked. 

“Like, uh, why he wanted to mess with Barnes in the first place?” Mr. Stark sassed. 

Steve turned around to Papa and shrugged. 

“We should probably just tell him,” Steve suggested in a muttered. 

Papa narrowed his eyes. “Why?” 

“He’s got a jet, Buck. He might be able to help us get Pete somewhere while we take care of Zemo.” 

“So, you do trust him with Stark?” Papa hissed, darting his accusatory eyes to Steve before refocusing them back to Mr. Stark. He raised his gun a little higher so he had a better aim. 

“Don’t be a child,” Steve snapped, “he’s safer with Tony than he is here.” 

Papa growled, probably realizing that as much as he hated to admit it, Steve was right. He gave in, shortly explaining, “He’s after Peter.” 

Peter’s brow furrowed as he turned toward his father. “Huh?” 

“What?” Mr. Stark sputtered at the same time, “why?” 

“He seems to think that Petya got the last of the serum.” 

Mr. Stark’s eyes raised in disbelief. He pointed a finger at Peter and asked, “ _He_ has the serum?” 

He looked past Bucky’s shoulder and shot an apologetic look to the lean teen as he shrugged half-heartedly, “No offense.” 

“Yes, I have the serum!” Peter retorted defensively. He self-consciously rubbed his bicep, internally telling himself that he wasn’t _that_ skinny. It wasn’t his fault Mr. Stark wasn’t paying attention during his gymnastics meets when everyone constantly commented on his “inhuman strength” or even to that video where he took down an entire gang of bad guys trying to rob a bank. 

“Which is exactly why he should’ve stayed _in New York,_ ,” Papa cut in, emphasizing each word while sending a pointed to Mr. Stark. 

Mr. Stark rolled his eyes in return and snarked, “It’s not exactly like I brought him there to fight you.” 

“Oh, you didn’t? Is that why you bribed him with that fancy new suit?” Papa snarked back, stepping forward to get in Mr. Stark’s space, but Steve grabbed him by his jacket collar and yanked him back. 

“Oh dear god, it wasn’t a _bribe_ ,” Stark emphasized, harshly running his hands through his hair and huffing an exasperated laugh. 

“Enough!” Steve snapped, stepping between them. He put his hands up, and stressed his next command as if he were a mother breaking up a fight between her two children, “If we’re right about what’s happening, then Zemo’s already somewhere inside the compound and we have to get Peter out of here ASAP.” 

Papa and Stark still glared and huffed at one another, but both begrudgingly resigned when they realized Steve was right. 

Peter, however, had absolutely no idea what he was talking about. 

He looked at each man in front of him, chewing his lip and anxiously waiting for one of them to fill him in. When Papa didn’t break his glare from Stark and Stark from Papa and Steve from both of them, Peter exhaled through his nose. 

He hesitantly raised his hand to get their attention, narrowing his eyes when he asked, “Who’s Zemo?” 

Papa and Steve looked over, and Steve opened his mouth to answer, but Stark beat him to it by waving Peter off and dismissing him with, “Questions later. The adults are talking.” 

Papa’s lip curled as he stepped into Steve to get closer to Mr. Stark. 

“Don’t talk to my kid like that,” he warned, and Mr. Stark rolled his eyes again. 

“Okay, look, Smirnoff Ice, I’m trying to help you, but I can’t do that if you’re going to get all snippy with me while you’re holding a gun, alright?” he paused to cross his arms and ask, “Don’t any of you want to hear my plan?” 

Steve scoffed, “What plan?” 

“Uh, the one I just came up with?” Mr. Stark snarked. 

Papa snorted and stubbornly turned away. 

“No,” he grumbled under his breath. 

Steve turned to him and muttered, “It’s not like we have a better alternative. Let’s just hear him out.” 

Without giving Papa the time to oppose, Steve looked back and Tony to ask, “What’s the plan?” 

***

Mr. Stark’s jet was nice and everything, it even had a heater and a T.V., but that didn’t stop Peter from pacing the length of it just so he wouldn’t knock down the door and run back to them. 

God, it had to have been _hours_ since they left him here. And to think Papa almost didn’t allow it because it wasn’t “secure enough”. But all Mr. Stark had to do was shoot his blaster at the door once to show that it wouldn’t budge and Papa was sold. 

“Hey, uh, computer lady?” Peter called out, hoping that Mr. Stark was as predictable as he thought and ignored Peter’s earlier request to shut down his suit’s AI. “How long have I been in here?” 

“Twelve minutes and sixteen seconds, sir,” the AI chirped, sounding as pleasant as a young mother. 

Peter groaned and flopped backward into one of the plush seats. 

Just as he was ready to give up and accept the fact that he would never escape this prison, an overwhelming feeling struck him. It was like he was nauseous and excited all at once. Like he was terrified and infuriated. Like every single hair on the back of his neck rose one by one, and a shock was sent down his spine every time one lifted. 

He couldn’t place where the feeling came from, but he was suddenly engulfed with the belief that something was wrong with his dad. 

He stood up and focused his ears to hear every vibration, every click, every movement, every sound around him. 

It didn’t take him much effort before the undeniable sound of his father screaming a vengeful yell filled his ears. 

Without a thought, Peter was at the entrance, pushing at the door until clinks and cogs inside it started splintering. 

The metal groaned beneath his palms, bending significantly as Peter shoved with all his strength. He let out a determined yell and pushed and pushed and pushed until finally, a shrill scream came from the door as it burst off the jet. It landed with a nearly-silent thud onto the soft, welcoming snow. 

Peter jumped off the jet and sprinted, not even thinking about where he was going or who was waiting there when he arrived. 

His legs pumped and his heart pumped and his mind was blank except for the broken record thought that just kept screaming at him to find Papa. 

But the hairs on his neck rose once more before he made it to the entrance. His flesh broke out in goosebumps and everything felt like it was on fire and in ice at the same time. 

He halted without meaning to and instinctively turned towards the mountains. 

A figure sat on the edge of the cliff. His back faced Peter, but there was an overwhelmingly looming aura that he radiated. 

“Come closer,” the figure called out, looking off at the cliffside, “I won’t hurt you.” 

His tongue held a sort of Slavic accent. It was the same tongue that clumsily navigated Papa’s trigger words in the recording that Senator Ross and Mr. Stark forced Peter to listen to. It belonged to the man who tore Peter’s family apart, the man who put a target on his father’s back, and the one who, for whatever reason, wanted something from Peter. 

This was the Zemo all of them were inside looking for. 

“You’re not Hydra,” Peter sputtered, placing his feet firmly into the ground and balling his hands into fists. “I don’t recognize you.” 

Peter didn’t walk any closer. The sharp cold that once stung his skin now rolled away from the anger and confusion that boiled inside of him. 

Zemo smirked but still didn’t bother turning to face Peter. 

“That I am not,” he agreed, “I am just one man.”

Another crash burst from inside the compound, followed by a short, pained scream.

Peter twisted towards the noise, heart heaving in his chest and legs begging him to run towards it. But, if Zemo was out here, then who could they be fighting in there? 

“Do you hear them?” Zemo asked rhetorically, a humorless huff of a laugh laced between his words.

Peter turned back to him with his forehead wrinkled, and eyes wide and chest tight. 

Zemo smiled out at the white landscape, his yellow teeth dull in comparison. He chuckled as he said, “I didn’t think it would work this easily. I didn’t think they’d all be stupid enough to come here. But for a reason I do not comprehend, all of them will do anything to protect you.” 

Peter wanted to ask what he was talking about, to let him in on this joke so he’d know why or who they were fighting, but the words turned to ash in his mouth and he didn’t have the courage to set them free. 

“Oh?” Zemo hummed at Peter’s silence, “They never told you?” 

“They never tell me anything,” Peter snapped before he even realized he was going to speak. His face burned beet red, flustered by his slip up, as he took another step back. 

Zemo turned around. With cold, sharp eyes, he studied Peter for the first time, and all he saw was a terrified boy. He tilted his head to the side and smiled, a nauseatingly small thing, and claimed, “Your father murdered Tony Stark’s parents.” 

Peter blinked and quirked his head. It was his turn to huff a laugh, only his was towards Zemo’s stupidity because—

“Mr. Stark’s parents died in a car crash,” Peter asserted with confidence because it’s what Mr. Stark had always told him. 

But that confidence withered to nothing as Zemo’s grimy smile widened. 

“Oh, you innocent boy,” he teased as he turned back to the mountainside, “It’s for the best they didn’t tell you earlier. All parents do strange things for their children.” 

“Step away from him,” a voice as commanding as thunder spoke from behind Peter, who jumped at the sound of it. 

He turned around to see T’Challa rise like a messiah as he walked up the snowy landscape. 

Confusion swarmed Peter’s brain like bees and for a moment he thought he was hallucinating. Considering he hadn’t slept much at all for the past week, it wouldn’t have been an absurd assumption. But as he squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again, T’Challa was still there, and he was very real and, for the first time since Peter met him, he wasn’t trying to kill Papa. 

“It was never about you, Peter. At the very least, I hope you know that much,” Zemo stated while still blankly staring at the endless snow surrounding them. It was the last thing Zemo ever said to him.

T’Challa made it to them and put himself between Peter and Zemo. He calmly waved for Peter to leave; that he had it from here.

Peter took off, like the coward he was, without even questioning it. 

***

He never made it back inside. 

He could hear them fighting; hear them as clearly as if the fight was happening right beside him. 

And they would keep fighting, maybe until one of them died, and Peter wasn’t going to go inside to watch it. He couldn’t. He was frozen to the snowy ground behind his feet. 

He blamed his heart too because it was so soft Peter knew it couldn’t handle watching his father kill someone else Peter had once considered family. That was the only way this fight would ever end because all three of them were far too stubborn to call a truce and Mr. Stark wasn’t strong enough to win. 

So when it was all over, Papa and Steve could find him here, on the cliffside, in the snow, and maybe then they would be ready to stop fighting. 

Peter knew he was ready, especially since it was his fighting that began this mess. 

He didn’t know how long he stood out there alone, shivering in the bitter cold as snow covered his shoulders and hair and feet. The loneliness didn’t last forever, thankfully, because it wasn’t long before T’Challa was walking up behind him. Peter knew it was him from the soft and fluid way of his walk, so he didn’t bother turning around to greet him. 

“Did you kill him?” Peter asked the sky, trying to sound as nonchalant as asking for the time, but his words broke halfway through. 

T’Challa faltered. He watched the boy’s back for a moment, before stating a simple, “No.” 

Peter nodded and hugged his arms around him. He didn’t look away from the sky nor turn to acknowledge the man behind him. 

They stood in silence for a moment. The snow didn’t make a sound as it fell to the earth and no one could be heard in the building. All the screaming had stopped. 

“Did they kill Mr. Stark?” Peter asked, holding himself tighter as he braced for the answer. 

“No, Peter,” T’Challa assured again, softer this time. 

Peter nodded once more, exhaling as a bit of relief washed over him knowing that his father and Steve couldn’t have died either. 

“Come. Let's go find your father. I have a place you can all stay for now,” T’Challa said before he turned on his heel and ducked into the building. 

Peter didn’t follow. 

“Yeah, I’ll…” Peter trailed off, words hollow and face to the sky. 

T’challa was already inside. 

“I’ll come in a minute,” Peter finished and looked down the never-ending cliffside. He forced himself not to cry as the mind-numbing silence engulfed him. 

He stood there until the sore pain he felt in his legs morphed into a numbness. His feet were soaked as they sunk into the pillowing ground, and the snow fell like stars into his hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guess who's back...back again...
> 
> I am, 100%, truly sorry for the...eight-month (?) delay. this wasn't planned at all. I had a bit of a breakdown, went through a bit of a funk, but I'm back! And I'm doing much better. Also, here's a 13k chapter to make up for it! (hopefully. if this is garbage then I'll make the next chapter better)
> 
> To everyone who continued to comment and give love to this story even when I stopped updating, thank you. From the bottom of my heart, I cannot thank you all enough. And those who have commented and read this series from we leave through the fire, thank you. This series means so much to me and I'm so happy to be writing my boys again. 
> 
> I'll post again very soon (I promise this time!) 
> 
> -Emily

**Author's Note:**

> they're back!!!! this time with a marriage and a dog. i have legit rewrote this entire chapter like eight times until i finally found one i'm decently happy with. 
> 
> the next chapter is when the actions gonna start rolling. obviously, i had to work in the accords because i...want to fix civil war any chance i can get. 
> 
> let me know what you all think! i missed this series and writing this story so much and it feels amazing to be back. 
> 
> -emily 
> 
> [my tumblr](https://blondieewritess.tumblr.com/)


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